


A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

by diemarysues



Series: Dreams [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Dreams, Dwarf Culture & Customs, HRBB14, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other additional characters to be added, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has been plagued with dreams for some months, always filled with the same stranger: big hands, strong arms, dark hair. It seems a mystery until he figures that it is a Dwarf, though this only narrows down his search to <i>every Dwarf in Erebor</i>. </p><p>When he overhears mention of a special party in the Mountain he wishes briefly that he can attend. But that's ridiculous. He's a Hobbit, not a Dwarf.</p><p>Turns out that's not a problem when magic is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my Hobbit Reverse Big Bang entry =D
> 
> Original idea is [ewebean](http://ewebean.tumblr.com)'s; a [Cinderella AU where Bilbo gets turned into a Dwarf](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/94375668816/this-is-my-draft-for-reverse-big-bang-u). Events in this fic may or may not resemble the art, since ewebean allowed us free reign with the prompt. Her art can be seen here: [[Bilbo's transformation](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425799916/bilbo-transforming-from-a-hobbit-to-a-dwarf-to)] [[Bilbo's costume for the Last Day](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425933721/bilbo-decides-not-to-attend-the-last-night-of)] [others to be added]
> 
> So thank you to ewebean for your art and for all the patience you've shown. You've been awesome to work with.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my darling [alkjira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira) \- who's been my go-to for whining and plot-bouncing, who's my beta, who supplied the beautiful title. [[Her HRBB entry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2731103/chapters/6119186) has bunnies and Bagginshield, I recommend it.]
> 
> And thank you, readers, for reading.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, there's another author who's writing for this prompt: [synchronyshattered](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/), and their fic: [On the Stroke of Twelve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2773817/chapters/6220829). I've read the prologue and it's awesome. Go check it out!

Bilbo woke with a start.

 

His heart fluttered like a bird’s wings and he automatically reached out, hand sliding across the mattress and meeting nothing but cool, bunched up sheets. His alarm only grew as he sat up. His hazel eyes glanced over the primroses by the window, his dressing gown draped over the rocking chair, his genealogy books stacked on the rug. Yes, he was alone in his bed and his room.

 

It took another moment to remember. Bilbo’s stomach dropped; he was alone and had been for many years now. That was the end of it.

 

He fell back into his goose-down pillows and let his breathing calm. Staring at the ceiling, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to retain the images his dreams had supplied for future reference or if he wanted to forget them in an attempt to end his torment; whatever his decision would’ve been they dissipated between one blink and the next. All he was left with was the feeling of calloused fingers gently stroking down his right cheek – a too-specific memory of something he’d never experienced before.

 

Finches called to each other outside the window, the sound covering Bilbo’s sigh as he slid out of bed and washed his face in the basin by the door. The water was soothingly cool but did not carry away the phantom caresses that still haunted him. It was habit, now, to push the feeling away and get on with the rest of his morning ritual.

 

This wasn’t the first time he’d been plagued with such vague-but-vivid dreams and it wasn’t the first time he wondered if other Hobbits endured them as he did. Bilbo would have liked receiving his parents’ advice on the matter but the dreams had only cropped up in recent months; much too late to ask them _any_ questions. As for other relatives or friends, broaching the subject over tea wouldn’t go down well, certainly if one didn’t want to be treated to shocked expressions and crumbs all over the table.

 

The image brought forth a small smile. He couldn’t help but imagine how shock would morph into horror if he admitted his suspicion that the person in his dreams was not a Hobbit.

 

He’d never thought he’d have to endure this problem. Growing past the adventurous boisterousness of his youth, Bilbo had grown more and more convinced that his would be a life of bachelorhood. He didn’t want for company – he had family and friends all around, whether to visit or be visited by, to share a pipe at a party or to share a pint at the pub. He had dalliances with interested lads and lasses, if not as often as before, warming beds and having his bed warmed. Yet he’d always looked forward to puttering around his smial on his own and hadn’t felt any less for it.

 

The dreams had awoken an ache inside of him, presented him with visions of a possible – impossible? – future and made him yearn for things he could not name. He had grown accustomed to being left with the echoes of these dream-touches, but they were reminders that niggled at him through the day, pervasive more than distracting.

 

He rubbed the angle of his jaw.

 

Everything was strange and maddening and Bilbo wanted to understand why – _how_ – dreams could make Bag End now feel empty– as if he needed someone to fill the space in his home as well as in his heart. The dreams had hinted at big hands and strong arms, a deep voice and broad shoulders, but the recent addition of _bristly_ kisses was a crucial detail in figuring out the identity of the person from his dreams. Hobbits could not grow beards.

 

Bilbo was practical enough to only briefly be conflicted over loving a Dwarf. Perhaps such a coupling/pairing would put a dent in his Baggins respectability but finding love was surely more important than the sniffy opinion of other Hobbits. It wasn’t as if Dwarf-Hobbit couplings were uncommon.

 

Maybe Bilbo would be able to put a face to the known features of the stranger in his dreams, Dwarf or no, and maybe he wouldn’t. It was more important to him that he _tried_ and made the effort to find the stranger, even if that person did not have similar dreams about _him_. He would not sit idly by.

 

It was with this in mind that he’d decided to visit the markets of Mannarill – the settlement that lay between Erebor and the Shire, set within the shadow of the Mountain.

 

Most trade between their races happened there as Dwarves rarely ventured into Hobbiton. Many Hobbits had no problem with venturing into Dwarven land and so Bilbo’s frequent visits were not considered too odd. Instead the vendors seemed to grow accustomed to him; his face was a familiar one, as he greeted shopkeepers by name (and they returned the same courtesy).

 

Bilbo did not bother with the food stalls (almost exclusively run by Hobbits) and did not bother with blades that were not kitchen knives. But there were other stalls enough to catch any Hobbit’s attention, filled with wares that were interesting, strange, and/or beautiful.

 

Still, Bilbo could not and did not forget that he was considered outsider by many Dwarves. They were friendly enough – especially if he had been or was a patron of their wares – but they were aware of his foreign presence at all times, it seemed. He had heard their language before, as an example, but if he wandered close enough to make out actual words, the Dwarves would silence. The ruder ones would stare at him until he scurried off.

 

It was difficult. Sometimes Bilbo grew so discouraged that he would rush home and try to distract himself with writing or reading, with Longbottom Leaf or Buckland Brandy. Sometimes he lay in bed and wondered if the dreams were just cooked up by his cruel mind. Sometimes he wished he would be found, instead of having to search.

 

Literally bumping into the Dwarf of his dreams would be silly and unrealistic, but it was nice to hope.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Mister Baggins! Top of the morning to you!”

 

“Good morning, Daffodil,” Bilbo greeted, exchanging nods with Myllyra – Millie – who was busy with some other customers. “How are you?”

 

“Very well indeed. Donna had her twins on Tuesday. There’re all three in good health, and the father’s chuffed to bits.”

 

“Cassia and Clover, I heard their names were.”

 

“Clove,” Daffodil corrected. “But come, I mustn’t natter the morning away, even if you are one’f my best customers. Millie has some new fabric for you to look at – some lovely blues and greens – but first let me fetch your order.”

 

As he waited, Bilbo cast his gaze about, admiring all the cloth and clothes on display. He ran his fingers along cool, soft silk that was a shade paler than his favourite buttercup-yellow weskit he was wearing. Beside it was a deep purple material almost as dark as the midnight sky and heavily embroidered with silver and beads like angular patterns of stars. Very pretty, but it was obviously not for Hobbit tastes.

 

He glanced towards Millie and her Dwarf customers. They three were laughing and joking, haggling over swathes of gold-on-blue linen. Standing as close as he was, Bilbo couldn’t help but hear snatches of their conversation – which yes, was in Common.

 

It should be expressly stated that he was not eavesdropping, though.

 

“…same time every year,” Millie was commenting. She pulled out a plain blouse with elaborate stitching along the collar and hem. “Why not this style?”

 

“Aye, but it turns out the clothes we ordered for the ball did not arrive with the envoy from the Iron Hills,” said the taller of the two, ignoring Millie’s question in her annoyance. “Durin’s –”

 

“Will these be ready by the last day?” the other interrupted, putting a hand to her bearded cheek. “I know we’ve left it a little late – we could leave the detailing…”

 

“Not necessary,” Millie replied smoothly. “We’ve never had an unsatisfied client, detailing or no. Now…”

 

“Here we go, Mister Baggins.”

 

Bilbo looked up at Daffodil, the tips of his ears burning. He hadn’t meant to get carried away with the not-eavesdropping. It was just that he’d before noticed that there was some sort of special occasion the Dwarves celebrated towards the end of autumn – Durin’s-Something, apparently – and these two Dwarf-women wanted new clothes for a ball. That sounded nice.

 

Daffodil grew concerned at his lack of reply. “Is there a problem with it?”

 

“I’m sorry, I was… I was lost in thought.” Bilbo tried a smile, only to have it die all the same when he looked at the jacket she held aloft. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

 

The other Hobbit nodded, a pleased smile spread across her face. “You’ve a sharp eye for cloth, Mister Baggins. I thought this was too heavy for the style you wanted. Glad to be proven wrong.” She lifted the jacket a little higher. “Would you like to try it on? I’d prefer to check the fit now, in case there are any problems.”

 

“I doubt there are problems,” Bilbo said with a chuckle, nonetheless shrugging off the blue jacket he was already wearing. Daffodil helped him with the new one, fussing a little over the way it sat on his shoulders.

 

Finally she stepped back; her expression was one of pride. “The colour does suit you very well.”

 

He beamed at her, already planning to match the red with a pea green weskit – the one with the acorn buttons. “This is brilliant work, Daffodil, as usual.” Bilbo almost didn’t want to take it off, but he did, laying it down and stroking the lapels. “And I think I’ll have a look at those neckerchiefs, if you please.”

Bilbo paid the correct sum of money after he made his choices, very happy with the shopping he’d done so far. Even if he wasn’t attending any balls, Dwarvish or otherwise, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be dressed well. His scalp tingled as if someone was sifting his curls through their fingers. It must have been the wind.

 

“Did you want to wait for Millie?” Daffodil asked. “Looks like she’s still busy, but perhaps we can leave it for another time…”

 

“I thought I’d wander around; maybe I’ll stop by before I return home.”

 

She nodded, already folding his clothes. “Then I’ll put these aside and you can collect it later. Would you like me to wrap it in waxed paper?”

 

“Yes, please.” Bilbo adjusted his jacket collar. “How is Millie, by the way? I didn’t see her the last time I was here.”

 

“She’s very well,” Daffodil said. She paused in her wrapping and glanced at her partner for a moment, smile growing fond. Then she turned back to Bilbo.

 

He couldn’t help but return the smile at the happiness in her face.

 

“Actually, we’re… we’re getting married and I wanted to ask if you’d come?”

 

“That’s wonderful news!” he exclaimed, smile widening. “I’m very glad for the both of you.”

 

“I’m glad too,” she replied shyly, again glancing at Millie. “We’re looking to settle down here, in Mannarill. It’ll be easier all round; close to Hobbiton and to Erebor, no need to insult any family members.” Her laugh sounded a little forced.

 

Bilbo wisely didn’t ask her to clarify. He knew Dwarves and Hobbits married, as was to be expected after so many years of living and trading together – in fact, he had relatives who had married Dwarves. Sometimes there were children born from those unions but such a thing was rare indeed.

 

He also knew the Chubbs – Daffodil’s family – and their very vocal views on Dwarves. Bilbo didn’t know if this was because of culture differences or a lack of contact beyond in the markets or because of plain dislike, but they definitely did not approve of mingling their bloodline with Dwarves. It was a silly and hurtful way to behave, but there would always be intolerant people.

 

It wouldn’t rid Daffodil or Millie of their hurt, but Bilbo vowed to gift them with something extra special.

 

He could not help but think of the Dwarf that could potentially be his partner, and wondered if they would face the same problem. He did not know if he should be encouraged or discouraged by Daffodil’ and Millie’s announcement.

 

“I’m not one to say no to a party,” Bilbo said, trying to cover his pause. “About when will it be? This weekend?”

 

“Oh, no, no. It can’t be this week, don’t be silly.” She noticed his frown. “Well there’s a Dwarvish… celebration. I’m not entirely sure what about, but Millie’s mentioned it.”

 

“I see.” As he’d not-overheard. “Isn’t that in two days?”

 

“You know of it.” Daffodil’s cheeks dimpled. “Aye and it lasts for a week. So our wedding will be some days after; gives everyone time to recover and prepare.”

 

Bilbo’s eyebrows had crept towards his hairline. “A week?”

 

She nodded, tight black curls bouncing. “We Hobbits aren’t the only ones who love parties, Mister Baggins.”

 

“Indeed. I almost wish I could go myself!”

 

Daffodil laughed and Bilbo joined in, though he hadn’t been joking.

 

Seven days of celebrating would be temptation enough for any Hobbit, but here was the added attraction of being able to participate in a Dwarvish festival. He’d be able to learn as much as he could while they were in their home and comfortable with what they did.

 

But it was not to be. It wasn’t worth thinking of ‘what ifs’, because he wasn’t welcome in Erebor, least of all to partake in a party. He wasn’t a Dwarf. He _might_ fall in love with one, if that one existed, but he would be stopped at the gates of the mountain or perhaps even earlier. No, no. What he would do was go on as normal, puttering about the house and going to the pub and visiting friends. All to distract him and in a fortnight – possibly long enough to avoid too much chatter about Durin’s Week, if that was what it was called – in a fortnight he would return to Mannarill and continue his hopefully-not-futile search.

 

“Mister Baggins?”

 

He blinked, and then blushed. He’d gotten lost in his thoughts, and could only hope his expression hadn’t been too telling.

 

“I’m sorry, Daffodil. I was just… remembering something I need to do.” Her smile took on an edge of worry, and Bilbo quickly added, “I’ll be back once Millie’s free. See you in a bit.”

 

* * *

 

As a reward for putting away his shopping – besides the clothes, he had purchased a new set of silver cutlery – Bilbo sliced up some boiled eggs and to have with bread and apple chutney. Tummy seen to, he went to check the mailbox he’d forgotten earlier. The lack of invitations to any parties left Bilbo with mixed feelings, but rather than delve into that he sat on his bench and pulled out his already packed pipe.

 

Last night’s rain had brought in crisply fresh air (and dreams of being held in a warm embrace), and Bilbo felt very glad indeed that he was a Hobbit of the Shire. There was nowhere else in Middle-Earth like it, never mind that he had little experience of the world beyond a few walking holidays. He had heard and read stories of Men and Elves (and more rarely, Dwarves), and while there were some marvellous adventures that he could only dream of being a part of, he was realistic enough to know that such endeavours were not meant for little Hobbits. He fit here, in Bag End, with his pipe and his books and his pantry and his life. He didn’t want for anything.

 

Bilbo took a deep breath, swirling the smoke in his mouth before letting it free in one long exhale.

 

He didn’t want for anyone, either.

 

Sternly reminding himself that he was supposed to be not-thinking of such things, Bilbo concentrated on the taste of his pipe weed. This batch had been very enjoyable, but there was little left and he’d have to place another order. There was some that he’d bought on a lark from Mannarill – a favourite of Dwarves, he’d been told. It was a little too invasive for his tastes, very rich and heavy, and so it would stay in its tin, up where he hung his herbs in the pantry.

 

He took the time to form a neat series of smoke rings, pleased as he watched them collide and dissipate. Perhaps he ought to invite someone over for dinner. It would be nice to share the rest of his pipe tobacco with someone who would enjoy it, perhaps accompanied with a nice bottle of wine.

 

At another time, Bilbo probably would have liked the night to end with ‘dessert’ in bed, but the desire for such activities had all but disappeared – his yearnings were now for a person he had never seen, never met, never known.

 

Bilbo sighed. He’d meant to keep his mind off his dreams, and yet all he had done was dwell. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting his hands rest on his thighs (mindful of the pipe he still held) and concentrating on his senses: the grass beneath his toes, the warmth of the sun in the sky, the smell of good tilled earth.

 

The warmth of a heavy arm settling around his waist.

 

Someone cleared their throat.

 

Bilbo’s eyes flew open, and he looked up at the person standing outside his gate. And continued looking up.

 

He immediately recognised Gandalf. The Wizard was very unique in his own way, with his grey clothes and grey beard, with his silver scarf and his blue hat and his brown staff; all this and the fact that he was the only one of the Big Folk that could walk into Hobbiton (and who knew where it was), without kicking up (too much of) a stir.

 

Bilbo had known Gandalf for years. In fact, his mother had known Gandalf for years. The Wizard had been a formative influence on Bilbo when he was younger, helping to teach him Sindarin and filling his head with tales of years long past. (Tales that Bilbo suspected Gandalf had lived through.) And of course there was the legacy of his whiz poppers beloved by all (no matter how many older Hobbits pretended to grumble about the noise).

 

In light of his very memorable last meeting with Gandalf, Bilbo greeted him with a simple: “Hello.”

 

“Hello, to you too, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I see you’re keeping yourself well.”

 

“And so do you,” Bilbo replied. “Is there a reason for your visit?”

 

“Only to visit some friends,” was the reply. “And you are one of them.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Bilbo paused for a moment. “Would you like to come in? Or you could come over later and I can make dinner for the both of us.”

 

“That sounds very agreeable. How did you like the markets this morning?”

 

“How did you –?” He broke off, knowing that the question would only be answered with an enigmatic smile as Gandalf tried to be mysterious (and ended up being aggravating). “It was productive. I’m sure you’ve visited it before; there’re many interesting items there.”

 

“Hmm, but perhaps more interesting is the party that is going to be held in Erebor. Everyone seems quite excited by it.”

 

“Are you going to be there?” Bilbo asked politely. He tried not to sound envious, but it was entirely possible that Gandalf _would_ be invited. He imagined that the Dwarves treated Gandalf as Hobbits did; with wariness and respect. He didn’t think they’d chase away a Wizard.

 

“I much prefer parties here,” Gandalf said, winking. “The dancing is always a joy.”

 

Bilbo chuckled around the bit of his pipe. The image of Gandalf towering over his dance partners was not an unfamiliar one. Big Folk were always more ponderously ungainly than Hobbits, but Gandalf looked so happily ridiculous that everyone thought the picture endearing.

 

“I rather think,” Gandalf said slowly, “that you might want to attend.”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “Don’t be silly,” he replied, trying to quash the ridiculous ribbon of excitement that rushed through him. “You know as well as I do that I’d not be invited.”

 

“You are right, there.” Gandalf shifted in place, pushing the brim of his hat up, the kindness in his eyes giving way to something sly. “There are very strict rules about outsiders entering the Mountain. Even I can’t go in willy-nilly.”

 

Bilbo wondered if that was really true – Gandalf seemed to have no trouble sticking his nose where he wanted, and he doubted that Dwarves could do much against it. Still, he was relieved that they were on the verge of a subject change. “Aye. So I can’t go, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

 

“Not unless we turn you into a Dwarf. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘me’.”

 

Bilbo blinked, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Had he heard…? No. He’d made a mistake, was all. There were very many stories of Gandalf turning too-nosy Hobbitlings into frogs and newts but Bilbo had grown out of such nonsense. He _must_ have heard wrongly and not least because Gandalf had a tendency to mutter when he pleased. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

 

“Turn you into a Dwarf. I’ve never done it before, but there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there m’boy?”

 

Bilbo’s hand slowly lowered, the bit of his pipe falling before he could puff on it. “Excuse me,” he started. “Excuse –!”

 

“There’ll be Dwarves from every walk of life, even some from other mountain dwellings. Erebor is one of the most powerful kingdoms in Middle-Earth, if you weren’t aware, and their celebrations are accordingly unique and wonderful. Very few visitors of other races have ever been invited into the mountain, and never during Durin’s Week or any other celebration. You would be first.”

 

This was not helping with the war between Bilbo’s common sense and his desire to go and impossibly find ‘his’ Dwarf during Durin’s Week. He needed to go through all the facts, starting with the major point of contention: “Turn me into a _Dwarf_?”

 

“Yes,” Gandalf replied simply. “It’ll be good for you… and very amusing for me.”

 

“I really don’t think –”

 

As was his character, the Wizard interrupted. “It’s not as if I’m about to sign you on a quest across the whole of Middle Earth to kill a dragon, Bilbo. You want to attend the ball and I’m going to ensure that you do.”

 

“Gandalf, I appreciate your wanting to help, but it’s really not necessary. I’m a Hobbit – a Baggins, of Bag End. I don’t need to go gallivanting into places I’m not welcome, dressed as something I’m not.”

 

“I’m going to _turn_ you into a Dwarf, not make you dress as one. Weren’t you listening?” Gandalf tapped the ground twice with his staff. “That’s settled then. I will see you for dinner later tonight. Then I’ll return two days hence to get you all sorted out.”

 

“Please, it’s not necessary,” Bilbo tried again. Why wouldn’t he _listen_? “I’m happy here.”

 

“I never said anything about your happiness with your life, or lack of it.” He chuckled softly. “Don’t be so worried, my lad. No harm ever came from attending a party.” Gandalf nodded towards him, and as was his way, left as Bilbo stared up at him with befuddlement.

 

Oooh! Dratted Wizard!


	2. 1.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One: Feasts and Banquets.
> 
> Thorin prepares (with generous help from family and friends).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for the encouraging comments, and all the kudos and hits! You guys rock.  
> Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint =)

“Will you be entering the tournaments this year?”

 

Thorin looked up from the letter he was perusing, smiling faintly when Dáin sat at the table. “Good morning, cousin. Late start today?”

 

“I woke up at an entirely normal time. _You’re_ early.” He was busy piling potatoes and cold meat onto his plate, but his tone sufficiently conveyed his disgust. “I’ve never understood your predilection for waking up before sunrise, and I never will.”

 

Thorin poured himself more watered down (it _was_ breakfast) wine before nudging the jug towards Dáin. “No point in lolling about in bed.” It wasn’t like he had a reason, whether something or someone, to delay his morning routine. “And to answer your question: no. I thought it best to give other Dwarves a chance.”

 

Dáin rolled his eyes. “And yet Frerin is being made to oversee them?”

 

“I couldn’t ask Dís, she’s participating,” he said between chewing his mouthful of bread. He tore off another piece, considering the nuts and cranberries studded within it. “I am King. I should be able to delegate some responsibility to others. It’s a week of enjoyment and celebrations, besides.”

 

“You say delegate, I say foist.”

 

“Very funny. I’m not the one who’s run away from their kingdom.”

 

“Ah, but unlike you, cousin, I am not King.” He had arrived from the Iron Mountains only days before. That he was so alert after long months of travel was a bit of a surprise, but Dáin had always been hardy. “This is considered a diplomatic visit.”

 

Snorting, Thorin returned to the correspondence from Ered Luin. “Call it what you like.”

 

Loud bickering and laughter heralded the approach of his nephews; sure enough, they burst through into the family dining room. The door bounced off the wall loudly and Thorin reached for his cup.

 

Kíli was a whirl of energy – even more than usual, seeing as the lad was very much a morning Dwarf – exclaiming his greetings and farewells in a single breath and then disappearing out the door after snatching up some cheese and sausage.

 

“He’s gone to the archery grounds, to practice,” Fíli said, in response to Dáin’s confused look. He took his usual seat and started peeling a pear with one of his many knives. “You wouldn’t know he was nervous, given how much he brags.”

 

“Leave him be,” Thorin said.

 

“I didn’t think he’d stick to the bow.” Dáin finished the last of his potatoes, chewing with a thoughtful expression on his face. “It’s clearly been too long since I last visited.”

 

“Ma says that Uncle Frerin’s been a bad influence.”

 

“And what does Frerin say?” Dáin asked.

 

“He agrees.” Fíli wiped juice off his chin, eyes growing wide and innocent as he faced Thorin. “Are you really going to grant audiences today, _irak'adad_? I thought you’d have party preparations to oversee.”

 

“Such things can be handled by others; your father has volunteered, in fact.” Thorin quirked his eyebrows at his nephew and heir. “You are not getting out of accompanying me. The celebrations will start at sunset, and you will be free to do as you please then. No sooner.” He ignored Fíli’s groan, turning to Dáin. “Would you care to join us, cousin? Your opinion could be… useful.”

 

Dáin grinned at him. “You mean you want to share your boredom.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

Thorin could have put off this particular duty in lieu of Durin’s Week, but he considered that irresponsible. He would see to as many petitions and audiences as he could before the festivities started. There was plenty of time to enjoy himself during the next seven nights.

 

For reasons that he couldn’t name, Thorin found that he wasn’t really looking forward to Durin’s Week as much as he had in the past – and not because of his duties as King. He could remember as a child becoming more and more excited as autumn rolled by. As he’d grown older, there had been the added appeal of participating properly in the celebrations – as Dain had intimated, Thorin had entered in the sword fighting tournaments, pitting his skills against warriors from Erebor and beyond. And of course there were the plays and the epics and the feasts, and just being amongst Dwarves during their most important celebration of the year. There was no equal.

 

But why was he so tired by the thought of it?

 

Some inner part of him decided to offer the opinion that he did not much care for entertaining anyone during the week. Perhaps there was some truth in that. Since his coronation, it seemed to Thorin that fewer and fewer Dwarves genuinely wanted to be in his presence. He spent a lot of energy trying to figure out the motives of those around him, and even more energy in the effort to mask his emotions (for him, a very difficult endeavour).

 

Not to say that Thorin didn’t have friends that he loved and appreciated, and was loved and appreciated by in turn. He would need to take advantage of the coming week to spend time with them instead of strangers that were only interested in _King_ Thorin.

 

Another part of him further suggested that he was growing jaded – that he had met so many Dwarves and yet hadn’t found his One. It was… possible.

 

Dís had already found her One in Víli, whereas Frerin had always known he had none – and Thorin did not know whom he felt more jealous of. Was it better to find your One quickly, or was it better not to have to deal with such things at all? Of course there were Dwarves who had lived without the other half of their soul, but it was not an easy life when your subconscious was constantly reaching out for the love of someone you did not know.

 

So maybe it was a combination of both. He was tired of being surrounded by insincere Dwarves, and tired that not a one of the sincere ones was someone he could love.

 

Having lost his appetite, Thorin pushed his plate away, and then stood.

 

“I haven’t finished eating,” Fíli protested, mouth full. “Can’t I come in a little late?”

 

“Your ‘a little late’ usually refers to an hour or more.” He rolled his eyes when Fíli’s expression turned pleading (though rendered ineffective by his bulging cheeks). “I will allow ten minutes; else I’ll have Víli rearrange the seating so that you may properly entertain the council.”

 

It was not an idle threat – Víli would be more than willing to mete out punishment as necessary – and Fíli knew it, wolfing down the rest of his food and snatching a roll to eat on the way to the audience hall. Thorin exchanged amused glances with Dain. “Let us go.”

 

* * *

 

The meetings tapered off earlier than Thorin expected and he was quizzical for a moment before Dain pointed out that most Dwarves would be getting ready for the feast tonight. Fíli was just glad to escape, running off to annoy and to be annoyed by his brother.

 

“I wish I was still that energetic,” Dain said, groaning as he stood and stretched. “I can only imagine how old you feel.”

 

This was a regular point of teasing between them. “And yet I appear to be less affected by my age than you.” Thorin passed the day’s notes to a waiting aide. “I expect you’ll have to return to your bed now, after gumming down some gruel.”

 

Dain laughed. “You’ve grown more spiteful since we were last together. I’m not quite sure I approve.”

 

“If you cannot keep up, I’d suggest that you take notes from the expert.”

 

“Dís, you mean?”

 

“She would be a good choice,” Thorin conceded. “Otherwise you can ask Fíli which council members he truly dislikes, and then you may learn from them.”

 

“I think I can live without it.”

 

A Dwarf walked up to them and politely cleared her throat to alert them to her presence. She wore the garb of a runner, a brass Raven pinned to her lapel, and bowed quickly. “My King, my Lord Dáin, I have been sent by Prince Consort Víli. He has requested the presence of, er… of Prince Fíli.”

 

“Any reason why?”

 

“He did not furnish me with any details, save the fact that the last shipment of food is about to arrive from the Hobbits and he is waiting by the Tourmaline Gate. I was informed that Prince Fíli would be here.”

 

“He was,” Thorin sighed. He knew – as most Dwarves in the Mountain knew – that Fíli would now be impossible to find. Both his nephews had an oft-practiced skill for eluding anyone looking for them, a skill that would be useful in espionage or combat situations but was instead used to escape responsibility and therefore merely painful.

 

Noting the resigned look on the runner’s face, Thorin could tell that she shared his opinion. “I will go inform Víli,” he said, directing a small smile at the lass. “I’d suggest you try the archery grounds in the off chance that he’s there.”

 

She bowed again, first to him and then Dáin, and hurried away.

 

“Very kind of you, Thorin.”

 

“She needn’t be rebuked for Fíli’s silliness.”

 

“Víli wouldn’t have rebuked her. He knows his son better than you do.”

 

This he could not argue. Really, Víli was a gift to their family, not least because he had slightly mellowed Dís and had helped carry on their line. He truly had a knack for numbers and organization from his years as a merchant, and Thorin was grateful that Víli was much better at planning Durin’s Week than he’d ever been.

 

It’d be good to go spend time with him. Thorin did want something to occupy his time – something more interesting than sitting around waiting for sunset with only maudlin thoughts circling through his mind. Going to the Tourmaline Gate meant fresh air and company, and a chance to observe any Hobbits that were with the convoy.

 

“Will you need my presence further, Thorin? Only I thought I might go visit my old friend Cira.”

 

“I’ve heard you mention her before.” A slow smirk crossed Thorin’s face. “Are the two of you…?”

 

“Perhaps,” Dain replied, putting his chin up as he made sure the jewels were properly positioned and shining in his beard. “We’ll see whether she’ll want to dance with me on the last day.”

 

“I look forward to it,” Thorin said, smirk dimming for only a moment. “May your axe strike true, cousin.”

 

Dáin’s parting gesture was unfamiliar but obviously rude, and Thorin chuckled. He’d have to remember that one.

 

* * *

 

Specially for Durin’s Week, Erebor had ordered a truly enormous amount of food from the Shire. It just about equated their normal needs for one-and-a-half months, meant to cover tonight’s especially lavish banquet, and then the other six nights while other themes took precedence. In times of poor crop yield they would have to depend on more expensive trade with whatever the Men of Dale could spare, but those times were few and far between and the Hobbits gladly fulfilled their end of the bargain.

 

Trade between them had flowed for years; the Dwarves tended to supply tools and weapons, construction of roads and buildings, and protection in the form of their armaments and soldiers; the Hobbits in turn had to offer lumber and medicinal plants, scouts to warn for approaching dangers, and of course food grown on their farms or managed by their herdsmen. The Hobbits preferred this barter system to trade with gold and coin.

 

Growing up with lessons on the culture and history of other races, Thorin had learned that Hobbits had no use for material wealth and had assumed that Hobbits were simple and carefree but they were much more cunning and complex than first expected. They were strange little things, openly enjoying their pleasures and yet mysterious – they shared a love of privacy with Dwarves, though Hobbits had their own peculiar method of keeping secrets.

 

Perhaps it would be interesting to have one of them as a friend. Thorin doubted that Hobbits would care if he was a King or a key maker, and that would be very refreshing.

 

Delivered food came to the Mountain through the aforementioned Tourmaline Gate. This side entrance was not as big as Erebor’s main doors, but it was wide enough for three or four laden carts to enter abreast, and tall enough to fit ten carts stacked atop on another. There was a fair bit of bustle there already, though Thorin could see the delivery itself was still a ways away. He found Víli easily, head bent as he spoke with Bombur just beyond the Gate.

 

“Ah, Thorin! Good to see you.” Bombur grinned up at him, holding out a hand so they could clasp forearms. “All ready for tonight?”

 

“I should ask you that,” Thorin said mildly, exchanging nods with Víli. “Isn’t this convoy of food a little late in arriving?”

 

“Not particularly,” Víli replied. He ran his short fingers through his hair; yellow like Frerin’s and Fíli’s, but more amber than gold. “So long as they arrive before sundown. It’d be very tiresome to force all these Dwarves to be late for the feast.”

 

Thorin’s brow creased. “…but wouldn’t receiving the food so late delay the feast anyway?”

 

Bombur and Víli turned incredulous looks towards him, though the former had the decency to not to laugh. He also had the decency to explain: “If you weren’t aware, tonight’s feast is all but ready, Thorin. Everything’s being roasted and stewed and baked and fried and steamed. The difficult bit is getting it all to the tables!”

 

“Of course Thorin isn’t aware,” Víli said, still chortling through his beard. “Remind me to leave this part of the planning to you next year.”

 

“If the feast is already seen to,” Thorin said, as patiently as his character allowed, “then why do we need more food?”

 

“For the rest of our winter stores. Might as well trouble the Hobbits only the once.” Víli clapped Thorin’s shoulder good-naturedly. “And before you ask, brother, I did not ask you here purely to tease you.”

 

“Could have fooled me.”

 

Bombur’s cough sounded suspiciously like a snort.

 

“In fact,” Víli continued, frowning, “I didn’t send for you at all.”

 

“Your son managed to leave minutes before the runner came along.”

 

He looked supremely unimpressed at Fíli’s antics. “Somehow I’m not surprised. I’d only meant to ask him whether he and Kíli had made a present for Dís.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to corner one of them later.”

 

“Only a little later,” Bombur broke in. “The convoy’s here.” He raised an arm, plump cheeks dimpling with his wide smile. “Master Gamgee, good to see you again!”

 

The Hobbit was on the first cart, twitching the reins of the ponies so they slowed to a stop. “And good to see you, Mister Bombur.” He looked rather young with his short hair and smooth face, but the pipe in his mouth and his way of speaking made him sound middle-aged or older. “You and your friends.”

 

“This is Thorin, our King, and Víli the Prince Consort.”

 

“Ah.” Expression remaining open and friendly, Master Gamgee tipped his hat towards them. “Very nice to meet you.”

 

“And you,” said Víli. “I hope everything is in order?”

 

The Hobbit jumped down from the cart. “Oh yes. Your lads are efficient as always,” he said, gesturing towards the Dwarves with his pipe. The carts were all Dwarf-made while the ponies were from the Shire, and it was the Dwarves who loaded the food onto their carts and drove them to Erebor. “Very efficient.”

 

“Your people continue to be productive and we are grateful.” He strode forward and extended his arm towards Master Gamgee.

 

The Hobbit looked a little worried at the lines of tattoos on Víli’s dark skin, but returned the gesture, though instead of grasping Víli’s forearm he instead grasped his hand. Their fingers did not slot together, and a confused furrow settled between Thorin’s brows when he watched them shake their joined hands up and down. Víli seemed to be familiar with this practice, or at least was not surprised, and Bombur didn’t bat an eyelid either.

 

 

“It’s very good your largest feast is at the end of harvest is what I say.” He smacked his lips on the bit of the pipe. “Every year, without fail. Us Hobbits can appreciate that.”

 

Víli bowed his head and stepped away to speak with one of the Dwarves of the convoy. That left Master Gamgee and Bombur… and Thorin standing awkwardly off to the side. His earlier wish to meet a Hobbit had been an idle one as he’d not met very many before this. Now he was unsure how to proceed; Master Gamgee was friendly and obviously not intimidated or impressed with Víli’s or Thorin’s own titles. Thorin didn’t think that interrogating him would be much appreciated but he could not think of anything a Dwarf and a Hobbit could speak about.

 

“Speaking of ‘us Hobbits’, how’re your brood, lad? All hale and healthy?”

 

Master Gamgee smiled up at Bombur, who was half-a-head taller than him and thrice as wide. “All curls and toes accounted for! My oldest lad keeps being led off by farmboys; he’s at that age.” By their sage nodding, both of them clearly knew what ‘ _that age_ ’ meant.

 

Thorin didn’t.

 

“And your five?”

 

“Oh, my little nuggets are well.” Bombur and his wife were unusual amongst Dwarves, to be blessed with having as many children as they did. “Nalla – my middle one, if you’ll recall –, she’s submitted her work piece to the Leatherworkers’ Guild. We’re hoping she’ll be announced a master soon.”

 

“Good, good, well done to her.” The Hobbit laughed. “I remember that story of yours where she made her brother’s boots into several purses.”

 

“Well Boro certainly learned not to break her sewing awl again.”

 

“I wanted to ask, will all of you be able to come for luncheon? My pantry needs to be prepared before you all invade Bagshot Row.”

 

“You know us; we seven’ve almost got as much of an appetite as your lot of six.”

 

“Soon to be more’n six,” Master Gamgee said, smiling wide and happy. “The Missus is working on the next two.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you both ‘worked on’ them.”

 

Both of them guffawed loudly and Thorin turned away. He’d no business listening in on their conversation, even if there was no effort being made to keep it secret. These were two friends who obviously exchanged many anecdotes and private jokes about their respective (and apparently extensive) families. Both of them were so clearly proud of being husbands and fathers.

 

Thorin’s closest experience with the latter was of course being an Uncle – but there was a world of difference between his role in Fíli’ and Kíli’s lives, and the role Víli filled.

 

And as for his experience with the former, well, he wasn’t and never had been anyone’s husband or even anyone’s One.

 

He rolled his eyes. Oh this was all ridiculous. Of _course_ he hadn’t found his One; these thoughts were echoing the earlier contemplations from breakfast and he pushed them all out from his mind and through his ears. There was no reason to be jealous of his brother-in-law, or his friend, or this Hobbit stranger. And he wasn’t. Jealous. He wasn’t jealous because he had family, and while he did not have a One there was no cause to fret overly.

 

Thorin would either find them or he wouldn’t. No point hoping that that Dwarf would suddenly appear in his path. He almost snorted aloud.

 

What were the chances?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do check out the rest of the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang entries **[here](http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com/tagged/entries)**!


	3. 1.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One: Feasts and Banquets.
> 
> Bilbo's first look at the inside of Erebor and the Dwarves there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate every hit and kudos and comment. Thank you so much.
> 
> This chapter was really fun to write, gosh. I've been dying to post it. The only bit I want to post more is... well, spoiler there. Enjoy!

“No,” Bilbo said firmly. “No. _No_.”

 

“Yes,” Gandalf said simply. He stood on the front step, hunching a little so he could peer through the door. “My lad, the sooner you stop being contrary, the sooner you can be on your way.”

 

“Contrary?” Bilbo spluttered. “You’re the one wanting me to be something I’m - I’m - I’m not!”

 

“All I’m about to do is change your shape. Your mind and heart,” Gandalf said, tapping first Bilbo’s forehead then his chest, “everything that makes you who you are, those will remain.”

 

His shoulders fell. “I still don’t understand why you’re insisting on this. They’ll know, soon as I walk in, I’m no Dwarf.”

 

“Don’t put down my ability, Bilbo. And don’t put yours down either. You are clever and quick-witted, and brave besides. I think you’ll do absolutely fine.” He stepped forward and Bilbo automatically moved aside to let him in.

 

He narrowed his eyes at the Wizard, who was stoopingly making his way through the smial. Fiddlesticks. How did he do that?

 

Bilbo shut the door and hurried after Gandalf. “Did you want tea?” he called. “There are some lemon tarts left over from yesterday…”

 

“Thank you Bilbo, but no. I’ve already eaten my dinner.”

 

“Shouldn’t stop you from having a little nibble,” he pointed out. “Just to ease you into supper.”

 

Gandalf laughed. “You Hobbits. Always so…” He didn’t finish his sentence, trailing off into more chuckles, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was meant to be insulted. He’d have asked for clarification, but – “Come along, lad, stand here. In front of the fire.” He raised his staff. “Now don’t move.”

 

It was a request that suddenly and intensely awoke a _need_ to move and when unfamiliar, heavy words dropped from Gandalf’s mouth and strange power drew in around him, Bilbo definitely wanted to duck underneath a table or hide behind a door. The top of Gandalf’s staff glowed brighter and brighter and Bilbo could only think about how much light was shining through his windows and whether passersby would notice it.

 

The brightness grew too much. Bilbo shut his eyes. He felt a touch on the crown of his head – the staff – and then…

 

Nothing.

 

Having opened his eyes, Bilbo was courteous enough to wait for a moment longer before asking, “Is that it?” He looked to Gandalf, who was frowning but had said nothing. “Or has it not worked?” He looked down at himself: yes, nothing had changed. Weskit snug over his podgy belly, hands safely tucked into his pockets, feet and toes all in order.

 

Was he relieved or disappointed?

 

“That was _meant_ to work.” Gandalf removed his hat and set it atop Bilbo’s favourite armchair so he could scratch his hairline. He paid no attention to any further prompting or questions, glaring at his staff before shaking it violently. Then he (somewhat gently) whacked Bilbo on the head.

 

“Ow!” He rubbed his scalp where a bump was already forming. “What was –?”

 

“There we go,” Gandalf said, and stood back.

 

Tales had always described magic as ethereal and that it produced a tingling feeling as it worked. The prospect of being subject to this ‘tingling’ had conjured up both excitement (as it sounded like a pleasant sensation) and dread (as it could only result from angering a magic-user). As it turned out he was wrong on both points: Gandalf was far from angry, and his spell did not feel pleasant at all.

 

Bilbo was horror-struck as his skin and feet grew tight as that of a ripe berry. His clothes became heavier and bigger but somehow his body was growing wider to fit them, bones stretching crosswise instead of lengthwise. It did not hurt precisely but it was _very_ uncomfortable. He heard joints grind together and then crack, heard the heartbeat in his ears slow as his breathing did despite his spiking panic.

 

He had not grown in height, but he felt off-balance all the same, trying to stay as still as possible in an effort not to topple over.

 

His hair sprouted impossibly fast, first shooting through his fingers that had only just stilled – rubbing the spot smarting from Gandalf's whack –, then his face was covered in hair as well. From what he could see, he now wore a thick moustache with an equally thick beard. Length did not change the gentle curls of his hair but made his head feel heavier. The moustache in particular made him want to sneeze.

 

It was all over in seconds that’d felt like hours. Bilbo twitchily lowered his arms.

 

Gandalf nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. “I did a good job, if I do say so myself.”

 

“You do say so yourself,” Bilbo replied, glad to know his voice hadn’t changed either – though was his speech muffled by this great big moustache-and-beard? He could not tell. “Almost always, in fact.”

 

As Gandalf grumbled about the cheekiness of Hobbits, Bilbo carefully took in his Dwarf body. He saw that his hands were large, with thick fingers that were surprisingly deft. He smoothed these hands down over his clothes. As an effect of the spell (he assumed), they were the same red and green as he’d been wearing earlier, with the same brown shade of his trousers – but the style was wholly different. Dwarves did not favour the blouses and weskits of Hobbit fashion, and though their style was strange with its loose sleeves and its long trousers and its low belt, it was also rather fetching.

 

Then he saw the boots, squawked, and fell over.

 

“Dear me,” Gandalf said, easily putting Bilbo back on his feet – on his _boots_. “No need to get so excited.”

 

“You try walking in these, these horrid things!”

 

“Ah.” Gandalf patted his shoulder, and then quickly grabbed at it when Bilbo listed to the side. “You’ll get used to it, Bilbo. Just remember to be careful.”

 

“I am careful,” Bilbo sulked. “I’m only unused to suddenly having a different body.”

 

“It will pass. Sit down first, before you break something.” He snatched his hat up and patted the armchair, as if this was his home and Bilbo was a guest being welcomed to a seat. “Now, this spell will not last forever, as I’m sure you’re relieved to know.”

 

He was.

 

“You will return to your Hobbit shape at midnight. No earlier, no later, and no matter where you are or what you’re doing. Do you understand?”

 

“I thought you would need to take the spell off yourself.”

 

“No, no. I’ll have to recast it every day, but it is your responsibility to return to bag End before midnight, else you want to be found out by other people.”

 

Bilbo could feel a headache building behind his eyes. Wizards seemed not to care about inconveniencing the lives of others.

 

“You should leave once the sun has almost set, if you want to arrive on time. I will take my leave.” Gandalf smiled sunnily and replaced his hat at a jaunty angle. “In the meantime I would suggest you practice your walking – wouldn’t want to fall down on the way to Erebor, would you now?”

 

* * *

 

In Bilbo’s life there had been many an occasion to leave Bag End by its back door – sneaking off to canoodle with the pretty Poppy Twofoot or escaping from bothersome relatives for example – but this was his first time doing so as a Dwarf. Though, to be fair, it was his first time as a Dwarf, full stop.

 

Despite a long list of sound reasons not to proceed to Erebor, Bilbo eventually decided that he would. Before, he’d resigned himself to staying at home, because no matter how much he may have _wanted_ to attend he had no business doing so. Hobbits did not belong in mountains.

 

But now he was a Dwarf, in shape if nothing else. And Dwarves could enter Erebor.

 

Oh, he _was_ afraid that he’d somehow be found out and then chased away, to be forever forbidden from even glancing upon another Dwarf. But there was a chance that he wouldn’t be. There was a chance he’d be accepted, if only for a little while. There was a chance he could find _his_ Dwarf.

 

Bilbo was going to take that chance.

 

Though he was no longer in danger of pitching forward on every step he took, he needed actual concentration to put one foot in front of the other and that was rather galling. He wasn’t quite confident about being able to sneak out of Hobbiton with these clunking great boots tramping down the path – even if no one heard him stomping around they’d have been able to follow the boot prints in the road and the flattened grass and meadow flowers he was forced to traverse (wincing all the while).

 

It was a blessing that most Hobbits would be sitting down to supper now or putting their children to bed or getting sloshed in the pub. He saw no one as he hobbled along, but just in case he did it would’ve been nice to hide behind a coat so it wasn’t immediately obvious that this was a Dwarf wandering out of Hobbiton. Sadly none of his coats fit his new widely-set shoulders, and Gandalf’s spell had altered his clothes but hadn’t added to them. Perhaps he’d ask tomorrow evening… assuming all went well and he wasn’t imprisoned for impersonating a Dwarf.

 

Luckily for Bilbo’s nerves he managed to get all the way out off Hobbiton and to Mannarill without being seen and/or stopped. (All he had to worry about was making the trip back, but that he’d deal with later. Hopefully. If all went well.)

 

He was not the only Dwarf passing through the settlement. He wondered if they had come from other Mountains to attend the festival and were staying in various inns, or if they were Ereborean Dwarves with homes in Mannarill, or if they had just finished some last minute shopping before the partying started. He was glad for their presence, whatever the reason, because it meant he was not alone in walking along the path to Erebor.

 

It was strange to be amongst Dwarves as they chattered and joked with each other in their language without any of them looking askance at him or hushing themselves in his presence. Instead they laughed and joked, cheerfully jostling each other and admiring their dress. Those who caught his eye smiled and waved at him, and he smiled back. All were excited as they approached the Mountain.

 

He hoped he wasn’t gaping too openly, just as he still hoped he wouldn’t trip over his feet, as he stared at the entrance into Erebor. Of course he’d seen the statues from a ways away, but now to be so close to them he was awed by their sheer size. Two enormous Dwarves stood on either side of the doors with axes drawn, looking almost alive despite being carved from rock that was polished to a shine and free from moss or mould.

 

The Brandywine ran over cracks and crags in the rock, tumbling into a pool by the base of one statue, flowing underneath the main path to the base of the other then snaking along south on its way to border East Farthing. The rush was softer than expected, water doubtlessly icy cold.

 

Bilbo’s gaze wandered over the façade of Erebor’s entrance proper. It was of course hewn from the mountain wall, a seamless transition from craggy natural rock to smoothly chiselled interlocking patterns. The overall effect was of severe angles, hiding windows and pillars and ramparts, intimidating all that were to enter. It intimidated _him_ , at least.

 

Glancing back he could see the lanterns and lights of the Mannarill. Further on was Hobbiton and, further still, Bag End.

 

He turned back, facing the gigantic, sturdy gates. Beyond lay more Dwarves and a party he knew would be amazing and enlightening. There would be so many things he’d never seen or heard of before, and he wanted to learn as much as he could. All he had to do was walk on.

 

Bilbo squared his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

The sheer size and brightness of the entrance hall was near-inconceivable.

 

As Bilbo followed the path of the growing crowd, he took in the inside of Erebor with large wide eyes. From what he could comprehend, it looked like everything was shaped from a continuous piece of rock, impossible and seamless, as if the Dwarves had made all these motifs and patterns as they hollowed out the mountain. Was that possible? He could imagine that removing enough rock to make Erebor habitable would have been a massive undertaking lasting years and years – natural caves and caverns only went so deep – but to further put this much detail and in such a grand scale… he was in awe.

 

(He knew a little of hollowing out hills and construction, as his father had built Bag End, but this… this was exponentially tremendous.)

 

He’d expected the inside to be stuffy and dark, without any windows that could be seen, but the ceilings were incomprehensibly high and everywhere there was light. Pillars stood at regular intervals with regular angular patterning within these carvings that hid holders for merrily burning torches.

 

As he walked on – miraculously not bumping into anyone while he craned his neck this way and that – Bilbo saw that the walls and floor had been polished to a high shine; dark, dark rock that seemed to swallow up light and yet reflect it at the same time.

 

His amazement grew when he realised what he had walked through was ‘just’ an entrance hall and walkway.

 

They had entered an even larger hall. Here the torches were accompanied by candle-filled chandeliers, each as big as the Party Tree at home, dripping down from stalactites veined with what could only be gleaming gold. The floor here was even more shiny and smooth, and he wasn’t quite sure if the repeating, sweeping patterns of lighter colours were part of the original rock, or set into it, or painted on.

 

Scattered throughout the hall were Dwarves, more than Bilbo had ever seen in his life. They were all so different from one another, of varying heights and widths and builds, skin pale or dark or any shade in between, some marked with ink, some draped or pierced with many jewels, hair black or yellow or red and or grey or white, pulled into braids and buns or cascading free or twisted and tied into elaborate styles.

 

Not a one of them gave him a second glance – or at least he did not notice them, as the glances given were admiring rather than suspicious.

 

Bilbo wandered amongst them, listening for snatches of Westron, but there was only the Dwarves’ native tongue. Now that he could hear it clearly, he wondered at it. Hobbitish was instinctive and sprightly, Sindarin was lilting and lyrical, Common was clean and… common. But Dwarvish, now Dwarvish was full of consonants, sometimes smooth and melodic, sometimes harsh and jarring. As far as Bilbo could make out it seemed to depend on who was speaking or maybe the intent of the person speaking. It was difficult to know for sure when he didn’t understand what was being said.

 

Oh well. He had hours to go yet – and judging by the rumbling in his tummy, his appetite at least had remained Hobbity.

 

If nothing else these Dwarves were sensible in understanding the need for ample amounts of food at parties – better a hill of leftovers than growly bellies and empty plates.

 

Most of the dishes were served on shining metal platters arranged on laden stone tables: meat dripping off the bone, sweet and succulent, steeped in many marinades or served in strange stews or sauces. As he sampled this and that (for research purposes) Bilbo was quite sure that there were no vegetables in sight save potatoes and tomatoes – despite Shire farms like Farmer Maggot’s producing corn, eggplant, parsnips, broccoli, and others in enough quantity and quality to satisfy most. Perhaps Dwarves didn’t like vegetables. Queer things.

 

At least there were fruits, even if they were served as part of savoury dishes rather than on their own or as pudding: cubes of nectarines arranged on strips of steak, poached plums accompanying bland turkey, pieces of melon spread with cheese and wrapped in cured ham, roast quail in cranberry sauce garnished with the whole fruit, seared beef stew with red currants. He would have to try and recreate some of them in his own time.

 

Bilbo had found no mushrooms, which wasn’t what he first expected since they thrived in cool, damp caves. But his preconceived expectations of the inside of a mountain had been rendered untrue; Erebor was cool, yes, but not damp, and certainly not a cave.

 

Ale there was aplenty – from the scent Bilbo had suspected it had been imported from the Men of Dale, which would have been a shame. (He’d tasted it during the one time it’d been served in a primarily Hobbit-visited pub, and the kindest thing said was that it was as weak as p – as weak as water.)

 

Instead it was Dwarvish ale and this was sharp and strong, not as good as that brewed by Hobbits, but not bad despite its strangeness.

 

He nursed a tankard of it now – he’d lost count of how many he’d already downed, only knowing the pleasant buzzing under his skin. Drinking seemed to be an excellent defence against speaking, especially when Dwarves (with admirable upper body strength) proffered food on heavy platters. He could smile and nod and pretend his mouth was too full for any verbal acknowledgement – it had worked so far, and any worry over being rude had drowned in ale.

 

It was hard to pretend he was eating when a couple of Dwarves approached him and started speaking to him – and while there was relief that his Dwarf shape was acceptable, panic followed close on its heels. What was he supposed to say?

 

At a loss, he desperately pointed to his mouth and shook his head. As an added measure he pointed at his weirdly rounded ears and did the same.

 

Both Dwarves – she was tall and extravagantly whiskered, he was round and decorated with crystals – formed ‘O’s with their mouths. At least expressions of realisation were universal. Bilbo smiled at them, relieved, and hoped they would now move on to someone else.

 

Instead he was faced with _strange_ hand signs. Only one of the Dwarves was using his hands; the other watched and then turned to Bilbo expectantly. He presumed that the question or statement was identical to the spoken one earlier but again he did not know what it meant.

 

He stared. They stared.

 

After a long, uncomfortable moment, the Dwarf repeated the hand signs, slow and deliberate. Bilbo assumed that these signs were connected to ideas rather than words, that the gestures were developed and chosen because they were familiar actions. Be that as it may, they were not familiar to _him_. He still could not answer, and shook his head once again.

 

Neither Dwarf ran off to report Bilbo to guards and have him dragged out of the Mountain, but their faces took on expressions of such _pity_ that Bilbo almost wished they had. It was clear that they thought him stupid and simple, and one even patted Bilbo’s head patronisingly.

 

He gritted his teeth and forced a feeling of relief when they walked away. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know who he really was. They did not know the circumstances surrounding his presence amongst them. He couldn’t blame them for that.

 

None of this was any consolation when the same thing happened no fewer than _five_ times.

 

By the sixth, he realised that he was likely attracting attention – the wrong kind. The people that had tried to speak with him would describe to their friends a strange Dwarf who could not communicate in any way and add to that those who'd caught him tilting his head in bewilderment every time the bells tolled.

 

To his defence they only rang once every hour so it wasn't like he'd had lots of opportunities to figure it out. If he hadn't seen the fellow with the hourglass pulling on a large golden rope as the sand ran out, he might have continued to believe it was part of the entertainment somehow.

 

(He could admit to being a bit despairing over the Dwarves' taste in music before figuring out that the bells just marked the hour.)

 

And now the bells sounded again; ten chimes. Ten o’clock. It wasn't yet that late but it was late enough.

 

If nothing else, Bilbo had found out at least two things tonight: Dwarves only spoke Dwarvish to each other when other races were not present, and transforming into one did not equate being able to understand that language.

 

It was time to leave.

 

Bilbo did best to rush through any gaps between Dwarves while not jostling anyone. Oh, this had been a terrible idea. His enjoyment had extended only to his initial awe of Erebor and its inhabitants, as well as the food and drink served. Beyond that there was nothing to take pleasure in: he could not converse with other Dwarves, relegated to being a wallflower where he could only observe but learn next to nothing.

 

And what of his quest to find _his_ Dwarf? If he happened upon them, would he have been able to do more than shovel food in his mouth and pretend to be simple? Had he already happened upon them?

 

He’d made up his mind. One day of this party was more than enough for him, thank you! No, soon he would be back to his Hobbity self and he would stay in that shape forever after. No pretending he was someone he wasn’t.

 

Bilbo’s thoughts scattered when somehow caught the toe of one boot behind the ankle of the other – oh those _beastly_ boots, he managed to think, before he fell –

 

Fell straight into a wall.

 

Or, no, not a wall; he’d bumped into a tall Dwarf. “Oh!” He looked up into a startled face. “I beg your pardon, excuse me.” Alarmed and acutely embarrassed, Bilbo pulled free of the steadying hands on his elbows – trying to be polite and not snatch out of his grip – before hurrying on his way, maintaining a sensible speed while minding the placement of his feet.

 

Finding his way out was reasonably simple despite his distress and soon he was on the path back home with stars overhead and Erebor to his back.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo shut and locked the back door of his smial, still feeling out of sorts.

 

He’d meant to find out about Dwarves and their parties, had meant to make a few acquaintances, had meant to enjoy himself. Had hoped to find the Dwarf who haunted his dreams. Instead he’d run away, fully intending to demand Gandalf lift the spell –

 

He sighed and tried to put it out of his mind for the moment. His feet ached terribly, and the sooner he was out of these boots and the heavy clothes, the better!

 

Putting the kettle on the fire for a much-needed pot of tea, Bilbo gratefully sank onto the bench. He braced one foot on the edge, trying to figure out how to remove the boot on it. He traced over the pretty acorn patterning but found no buttons or laces to loose. Perhaps he could just pull them off?

 

Bilbo grunted. How did non-Hobbits deal with this sort of thing? It was inconvenient, that’s what. Better to walk barefoot instead of galumphing around and treading the ground flat. He tried to point his toes in the hope that this would help, and tried again. Feet were supposed to be free to breathe instead of being confined and –

 

The boot thunked loudly as it hit the floor. Bilbo was too preoccupied to worry about any scuff marks on the flagstones.

 

Where was his _hair_? The tops of his feet were _bare_ of the curls any decent Hobbit would be proud of. Was this why Dwarves wore boots? To hide this _horror_?

 

He yanked off the other boot (still with difficulty) and set his feet on the floor, staring at them with unease sharp at the back of his throat. It was no wonder why he’d had such difficulty walking; the boots were an extra handicap but his feet were tiny and obviously unstable. This was the precise reason why the children of other races took so long learning to walk – too much time falling over trying to balance themselves!

 

Bilbo’s unease only grew as he considered ‘his’ feet: they looked smaller and paler, felt delicate and cold against the floor. Surely this was temporary. It had to be.

 

He narrowed his eyes. If it wasn’t, he was going to break Gandalf’s staff over his head, Wizard or no.

 

Suddenly curious (with displeasure and dismay still simmering beneath his skin) Bilbo pulled off his jacket and overtunic, letting both fall on the bench. He hooked the collar of the undershirt with his forefinger and glanced down. He stared again.

 

So, instead of curls on his feet he had an overabundance on his chest. Bilbo had actually attributed the bulkiness on the material of his clothes, yet now he had chest hair almost enough to serve as an undershirt of its own.

 

Hair in the wrong places, too small feet wrapped in too big boots, stubborn refusal to speak anything but Dwarvish to each other…Dwarves were exceedingly strange. To be quite honest Bilbo didn’t think he enjoyed being one very much.

 

– just as he didn’t much enjoy the back-to-a-Hobbit transformation that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think?
> 
> Happy New Year guys! Have a great 2015.


	4. 2.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: Music. 
> 
> Thorin meets with Dori and Bofur, speaking of concerts and… other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this is late. Tendinitis and dental school don't mix, and I didn't want to end up giving a half-arsed chapter.
> 
> This chapter would have been impossible without the lovely alkjira.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: some lewd talk

Hmm.

 

The ink used to underline important points in the memo on his desk was a strangely familiar shade of green. Where had he seen it recently? There was nothing green he could see now that matched it – the aquamarines along the pen nib were too blue, the ribbons in Dori’s hair were too yellow. Mentally going through the morning – grudgingly waking up, going through his ablutions, breakfast with his family – he couldn’t think of anything that particularly stood out. Perhaps it was something from last night –?

 

Oh. He did remember: the strange Dwarf.

 

Truth be told, at first glance he _hadn’t_ seemed so strange. In a hurry and slightly distressed, but not strange. From what Thorin had managed to see, he had honey-brown hair and hazel eyes, and quite an attractive nose. His clothes were nothing special – though, as mentioned, the green of his overtunic was memorable – and his boots must have been new if they caused him to trip over his own feet.

 

He’d fallen into Thorin’s chest, and _then_ the strangeness happened.

 

First, there had been no recognition when they’d collided.

 

Thorin didn’t mean to swing his own pickaxe, but the fact remained that he was King Under the Mountain. Could there really be Dwarves that didn’t know what he looked like? He considered this for a moment. Well… yes, he supposed, it was possible to know _of_ someone without knowing what they looked like, especially if this green-tunic-dressed Dwarf was from another settlement, visiting Erebor for the first time.

 

But the next was undeniably odd. Within the privacy of their Mountains, Dwarves did not speak Common except during lessons or if guests were present. Even if they were merchants dealing with other races – which could be a likely occupation, given the Dwarf’s deep golden skin – it was instinctive to speak Khuzdul rather than Westron.

 

And, along those lines, his apology had been an instinctive response after accidentally running into Thorin. Why didn’t he use his native language?

 

Someone snapped their fingers. “Thorin?”

 

He pulled himself out of the mire of his thoughts, noting that while Dori concealed most of his amusement, Bofur didn’t even try.

 

“I didn’t notice your arrival,” he said to Bofur.

 

“You didn’t even notice Dori’s throat clearing. I decided to be less polite.”

 

Dori harrumphed. “You always decide that,” he said, without heat. He and Bofur had bickering about propriety and stuffiness down to an art – they were good friends despite and because of it. “But now that we have your attention, Thorin, there have been some changes to the main concert.”

 

“Changes?” Thorin repeated. Given the scale of said concert, involving hundreds of Dwarves who weren’t necessarily musicians, the importance of settling all the details as early as possible had been one of many lessons learned before his coming-of-age. “How can there be changes when everything was confirmed last month?”

 

“Shields shatter and blades break,” Bofur pointed out, sitting down. “In this case, our midnight concert will be short.”

 

“Short of hands or short in duration?”

 

“Both.” Dori sighed and shook his head, pearl clusters swaying from the end of his beard. “No avoiding it, nothing to be done.”

 

Bofur cleared his throat. “Except…”

 

“Except?”

 

“His solution.” Sighing again, Dori reached up to minutely adjust one ribbon. “It’s not strictly traditional –”

 

“Meaning it won’t be liked by stuffy old bastards who go around with their axe shafts up their arses.” Bofur grinned. “No offense, o’ course.”

 

Still tugging and repositioning his ribbons, Dori’s reply was a dry: “None taken.”

 

“‘Sides which, mining shanties _are_ traditional. We pass ‘em on, parent to child, generation to generation. Most of us Dwarves – us common folk, that is,” Bofur winked, “we grew up on them. It’ll be a nice surprise.”

 

“And you’ve arranged everything?” Thorin asked.

 

“Aye.”

 

“Before consulting me.”

 

Bofur’s grin grew. “Aye.”

 

Thorin’s glare was half-hearted; he couldn’t help but feel relieved. Making plans – more particularly, making plans for musical concerts – was not a strength of his. After all, he’d only been crowned a decade ago, and even those ten years had not allowed him to become well versed in it. Perhaps next year Bofur could take over this particular job – if his idea was well received and didn’t shock any ‘stuffy old bastards’ to their death.

 

“Very well,” Thorin said, smiling a little when this was met with a whoop. A thought occurred, and he added gravely, “But I _forbid_ the inclusion of ‘Shaft Up, Rocks Off’.”

 

Bofur looked disappointed. Dori scoffed.

 

“Oi! Don’t knock it, you. You wouldn’t know good music even if it fell on your head.”

 

“I’m not the one who constantly gets pelted by rocks in mines,” Dori sniffed. “I _do_ know music, especially good music. There’s time for fiddles and flutes – which, I’ll remind you, I play quite well – but songs about ‘handling hammers’, those aren’t fit for the ears of Dwarves attending tonight.”

 

“You mean the common folk? Have you forgotten how much we like that sort of thing?”

 

“And you’re ignoring all the impressionable minds hanging about?”

 

“It’s not –” Bofur frowned. “Wait, there won’t be any little ‘uns running around. Or there shouldn’t be.”

 

“They don’t have to be little. I know Dwarves old as I am who are juvenile as… well, juvenile as you.”

 

“I _am_ younger’n you.”

 

This went ignored. “I admit, it will be nice when most other Dwarves join in with the singing.” He smirked. “Turns out your idea is a good one, bawdy songs notwithstanding.”

 

“Bawdy? It’s not bawdy. And it’s not rude either.”

 

Dori made to correct Bofur but instead declared, “It is impossibly rude.”

 

“It isn’t!”

 

“It obviously is –”

 

“Shush, shush, just listen –” Bofur thumped his chest with a fist, cleared his throat, and: “ _A Dwarf’s shaft is long and thick, makes everyone gasp and gawk_ –”

 

Dori put his hand over his face.

 

“ _Just hold on tight and handle it right, and don’t forget the rocks_!”

 

“You’ve proven my point.”

 

“No, I was proving _my_ point –”

 

Knowing that this was just the beginning, Thorin stopped watching their argument. He had better things to think about.

 

But _why_ did he want to think about that strange Dwarf stranger? A stranger who was one in a sea of Dwarves attending the Durin’s Week festivals – one in a sea of thousands. Thorin didn’t want to sound a distant and cold King, but there was little chance that their paths would (literally) collide again. But there was a certain freedom in that. No harm speculating about someone he’d never meet again after all. And it had been strange, his choice of language and wording both.

 

_“I beg your pardon, excuse me.”_

 

Putting aside the obvious and odd fact that this had been said in Westron, Thorin wondered at the sentence itself.

 

Despite much evidence otherwise, good manners were not beyond Dwarves. That the stranger was polite did not matter as much as his choice of words. Thorin had never before come across that sort of phrasing – even considering his circle of friends (Bofur and Dori included) who had as dissimilar ways of speaking as their appearances and personalities.

 

To be honest, the nearest comparison was to the Hobbit. (What was his name? Gamwich? Gammidge? Gamgee? Surely one of the three…) Perhaps that Dwarf had spent a lot of time amongst the Hobbits while working in Mannarill, enough to become accustomed to – influenced by? – their language and peculiar phrases. Stranger things had happened.

 

Would the same happen when constantly in contact with Elves? If, for example, Fíli or Kíli decided that they were quite taken with someone from Mirkwood, would they then take on Sindarin terms or diet choices? Thorin made a face. Though he did not _detest_ Elves, this was still a distasteful idea and one he’d hopefully never see realised.

 

Back to the more palatable subject of the Hobbity-sounding-Dwarf.

 

Thorin thought speaking with a Dwarf like that, whether in Khuzdul or Westron, would be interesting and educating. He would have information on various aspects of Hobbit life alongside tales of treating with them… the same information that could be yielded by talking with Bombur, really. He didn’t need to track down a pretty-nosed Dwarf he’d not even met.

 

But he _wanted_ to.

 

“You _are_ distracted.” Now it was Dori’s voice that drew Thorin from his thoughts. “It’s not like you.”

 

“I am King,” Thorin said with dignity, “and I have many responsibilities to distract me.”

 

In keeping with his less-polite self, Bofur guffawed. “You’re a very kingly king, no doubt, good at waving at the people and entertaining foreign guests and kissing babies and dancing during balls –”

 

Thorin snorted.

 

“You’re right, you’re shit at all that.” Bofur braced his boots against the desk so he could tip his stone chair onto its back legs, ignoring Dori’s disapproving look. “But as for the rest, actually ruling, that suits you. No one’s clamouring to overthrow you so there’s that.”

 

“Is there a point to this character review?”

 

“The point,” Dori said, “is that _you_ don’t get distracted by responsibilities.”

 

“And you’d know that.”

Over the years Dori had perfected his unimpressed expression; he now directed it at Thorin, treating him with slightly raised eyebrows and a mouth set in a straight line. “We know you.”

“Unfortunately.”

 

“Oh, I dunno, you have your uses.” Bofur flapped a hand at him, swaying back and forth on his seat. “Come along, King Thorin, you know we’ll not let this rest.”

 

This he knew to be true. All his family and friends were fond of sticking their noses into the business of other people (namely _his_ business). An unfortunate failing, as they were otherwise good company – but it was not in Thorin’s character to be petty and snub Dwarves based on negative facets of their personalities, no matter how annoying said facets were.

 

“It’s nothing important.”

 

The silence from Bofur and Dori was expectant.

 

Sigh. “I met someone last night.”

 

Bofur’s chair thumped back onto all fours, and he put his elbows on the table much too eagerly. “ _Oh_?”

 

“Not like that,” Thorin said, truthfully. “They bumped into me.”

 

“Mahal help anyone who tries that,” Dori commented dryly, prompting snorting laughter from Bofur.

 

Thorin scowled. “It is not my fault that you cannot stop when needed. Or keep your own balance.” Being buried under six Dwarves may have been an accident, but it had been one that was uncomfortable and aggravating, as well as one that was brought up as frequently possible.

 

“Go on, then. What’s so special about this Dwarf that assaulted you?”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes, not bothering to address the exaggeration. “There was – is – nothing special. I was just wondering what brought on the hurry he seemed to be in, despite the early hour. T’wasn’t more than ten.”

 

“Maybe he was late in meeting his sweetheart.”

 

Bofur’s suggestion brought forth the urge to frown – Thorin pushed past it. “Maybe,” he agreed.

 

“Or he had a bedtime to keep,” Dori said.

 

“He didn’t look very young,” Thorin said. He could remember much of the stranger’s features despite their fleeting ‘meeting’, including the braid that denoted him as an only son. He wondered again, just _what_ was so special about him? “Nearing one-and-a-half centuries, if I’m to judge.” He himself was only a little older, if ‘little’ meant ‘four decades’.

 

“Not a curfew,” Dori said patiently, as if Thorin was being thick. He often took that tone. “He could be working down at Mannarill. Maybe the morning market, that always starts at about three or four. He might just want to have a longer sleep.”

 

That did tie in with Thorin’s earlier meanderings, if only a little.

 

“Speaking of,” he said, attempting to move the conversation past last night’s Dwarf, “How is your Common?”

 

Bofur shrugged inelegantly. “Alright. I mean, I’m usually with Bifur when he’s selling his toys. The Hobbits seem to understand me well enough. Or they’re mind readers.”

 

“Or good at guessing what you mean?” Thorin suggested. Hobbits didn’t _really_ read minds. Did they? He knew that certain Wizards liked to pretend that _they_ read minds.

 

“Or that,” Bofur admitted. “Rorin, though, he can hardly string together two words.” His tone turned utterly fond. “Silly clunch.”

 

“He’s _really_ alright, then?” Dori settled into his chair, smoothing his overtunic before crossing his arms over his chest. “After…”

 

“Oh, aye. Very proud of his new scars, he is. And while he was healing up he made me an earring out of the tooth the healers found in his arm.” Bofur turned his head so they could admire said earring, a curved fang set into a silver cap engraved with his family markings.

 

“It’s very good,” Dori praised, and Bofur preened on Rorin’s behalf.

 

Rorin had been part of a guard company that’d run afoul of several wolves. No one had died, but some had suffered more damage than a few scratches. Having been cornered, Rorin was dealt bites to his head and arm, and the healers hadn’t been sure he’d survive. Thorin could remember how pale Bofur had been as he’d sat by his suitor’s bed with shoulders slumped, twisting his hat in his hands. It was good to know that Rorin’s recovery was proceeding promisingly.

 

“Most’ve his family are happy he’s all healed up before the wedding.” Bofur held up his hand before he was interrupted. “His _cousin_ ’s wedding, no need to get all excited. She’s just finished courting a Hobbit, said they’d have a winter wedding. Lots of food and ale, but there’ll be dancing so I’ll invite Dori and the rest instead of you, Thorin.”

 

Thorin ignored this jab.

 

“And when is he going to finish courting you?” Dori asked, nudging the miner pointedly.

 

“Give him time.” Bofur laughed. “Rorin: Dwarf Captain, slayer of Wolves and Orcs, shy as a pearl in its clam.”

 

Dori shook his head. “That sounds like him, no mistake.”

 

“There’s all sorts of bravery,” Thorin said, smiling. “He’s allowed some shyness, even if you are each others’ Ones.”

 

“They aren’t.” Dori looked at him oddly. “Aren’t each others’ Ones, that is.”

 

“I _am_ Rorin’s One,” Bofur corrected, “but he isn’t mine. I’ve never had the longing but that doesn’t mean I love him any less.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Thorin acceded, flicking his fingers dismissively before he fisted them to rest his chin on. “Even if he knows you both love each other, he’s allowed time to gather his nerve.” Not to mention time to regain his stamina. For walking.

 

“I can wait.” He fiddled with his tooth-earring. “I’ll wait as long as he needs.”

 

Dori sniffed and attempted to discreetly wipe the corners of his eyes.

 

“Rorin’s cousin.” Thorin frowned. “Is the Hobbit her One? And vice-versa?”

 

“I don’t know. Never really thought about it.” Bofur again rocked back on the chair’s back legs as he stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t even know if Hobbit’s _have_ Ones. They are quite strange.” He suddenly squinted at Thorin. “Is this what’s bothering you?”

 

Thorin took care to ensure no expression showed on his face. “Hobbits? Of course not.”

 

“I meant the business of Ones.”

 

“You’re obviously mistaken.”

 

“I’m obviously not,” Bofur crooned, serenely ignoring the warning in Thorin’s voice. “So you ‘met someone’, eh? And you won’t even give us anything more than that – poor form, not remembering any details of your One.”

 

Thorin did not glare. “He is not my One.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” Bofur conceded, shrugging. “In any case you’ve still got a half century in front of you – maybe more, maybe less. Plenty of time to find the other half of your soul.”

 

“Or for them to find you,” added Dori.

 

“For them to bump into you, more like.”

 

“This is not the point of my question.” Thorin hoped this protest didn’t sound as false as it did in his own ears. He forged ahead. “I only meant to ask after my friends’ happiness.”

 

“Now, see, I don’t doubt that. You are a horrible sap, Thorin.” Bofur snickered. “I’m sure you’d cover this fellow in all the jewels and gems and silver and gold you can find – probably cover him with yourself if he wanted, I’ll wager, along with some oil and –”

 

“ _Alright_ ,” Dori interrupted pointedly, “I’m not sitting here while you speculate about such things.”

 

“You’re free to go if you’re that squeamish, but I’m absolutely fine with discussing Thorin’s –”

 

“Be that as it may, that sort of thing is _none_ of your business.” Dori cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to our conversation,” he said smoothly – as he not so smoothly tried to elbow Bofur into silence.

 

“Yeah, we were talking about Thorin being assaulted by handsome strangers.” Bofur managed to keep out of reach of Dori’s elbow (which Thorin knew from experience were surprisingly sharp). “And being distracted thinking about them draped in jewellery and slathered in oil.”

 

Before Thorin could brush this off, his cheeks betrayed him by heating – because _now_ he had the image of the stranger lying bare in his bed, the details of his body admittedly as imagined as the come-hither look on his face. There was no chance that this blush hadn’t been noticed, because Bofur’s eyes and grin widened with surprise and glee respectively.

 

“No,” Dori said firmly, determined to move on (for which Thorin was grateful), “we were talking about speaking in Common… and I assume speaking it with the Hobbits in Mannarill?”

 

“Hobbits or anyone else there,” Thorin replied, relieved. “Including each other, I suppose.”

 

He didn’t miss the slight disappointment in Bofur’s face, but the miner was kind to leave his teasing aside for the moment. “Eh, I’m sure some Hobbits have heard snatches of Khuzdul. Bit difficult to avoid but ‘s not like they understand."

 

“They should use hand signs, then.” He did not like the idea of outside races being exposed to _their_ language. Perhaps his – perhaps the Dwarf stranger was wise to reflexively fall back on Common.

 

“You know, I think Merna was gossiping about some lad who couldn’t understand Iglishmêk.”

 

“Hardly unusual,” Bofur said.

 

“It _is_ unusual.” Dori’s left eyebrow was raised. “Especially since he could neither speak nor understand Khuzdul.”

 

Thorin blinked. Wait…

 

“How…?” Bofur scratched the top of his head – or his hat, really. “Where did they find him?”

 

“Last night, during the banquet. I can’t imagine he enjoyed it very much if he could not participate properly.”

 

“Could he speak Common instead?” Thorin asked cautiously. There was no guarantee that this was the same Dwarf that had run into him but there was no harm in asking. Being unable to speak Khuzdul it would explain a great deal, though.

 

“I’m not sure. Merna heard that he was mute and deaf. Or maybe just one of the two, or neither, who knows?” Tapping the point of his chin, Dori added, “Either way that still doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t be able to use Iglishmêk.”

 

Bofur made a face. “Seems a bit farfetched to me. Sure she wasn’t making things up?”

 

“Well it is a rumour… and she tends to embellish, does Merna.”

 

“He must’ve been drunk off his rocks. Absolutely pissed,” Bofur said knowingly, grinning at Thorin.

 

“It’s the only explanation,” Dori agreed. “A Dwarf amongst other Dwarves, understanding and speaking Common but not Khuzdul – can you imagine someone like that?”

 

Yes. Yes Thorin could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped the chapter was alright. The next one will (hopefully) be on time.
> 
> Again, I can only apologise.


	5. 2.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: Music
> 
> Gandalf convinces Bilbo to return to Erebor (of course he does), and Bilbo and Thorin meet properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again late, I'm sorry, with another excuse. I'm sick and have lost my voice (though the latter has nothing to do with writing, I know). Will the appearance of Thorin make up for it, a little?
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to alkjira.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Meddling Wizards and stubborn Dwarves.

When Bilbo awoke, his sleepy brain was confused about the vague relief that had settled around his shoulders like a warm shawl. Puzzled, he tried to shrug it off with his blanket, brush it off like the feeling of fingers twined with his.

 

It was only when he’d yawningly walked into the kitchen and saw the broom that he remembered last night in all its loud, colourful, and almost unreal detail. He’d gone into Erebor with almost no information about Dwarves and had come out all the richer (if a little quickly and panic-laced).

 

He’d arrived home still a Dwarf though thankfully returned to Hobbit form not long after.

 

That transformation had also been loud, colourful, and unreal. He didn’t quite want to revisit the details of it but suddenly clear in his mind was the sight and feel of his (Dwarvish) hair falling from his head and slipping onto the floor. He hadn’t quite minded that part of the transformation since his Hobbity feet and curls had been restored – it was just annoying that, not half an hour after sweeping all that hair had disappeared of their own volition.

 

Now he stared at the broom propped against the counter, and the broom stared back innocuously.

 

When he realised what exactly he was doing, Bilbo shook his head. Now was time for breakfast, not staring at non-living objects. He put the broom away before filling the kettle and then placing over the fire. Then he wandered into his pantry – always a comforting place to be – so he could start on a substantial and fortifying meal of rhubarb pancakes with strawberries and syrup.

 

After putting the dishes in the sink he went to the study. The sun was in the right position to shine through the window and fall across the surface of his desk; perfect conditions for writing. He moved the jar of flowers off the top of it – he must really change the water soon – and replaced it with his plate of cake. Then he got ready his ink and pen.

 

As the morning progressed – and the cake turned into crumbs – Bilbo took down notes of all he could remember. There were sketches of different repeating motifs that he’d seen on the walls and on the floors, sketches of the great statues flanking the main entrance, and even a rough sketch of a random Dwarf – he made a mistake with this last, since he’d drawn the Dwarf’s beard shorn short and undecorated.

 

He also took the combinations of all the food he had sampled last night to share with Briar – she _would_ likely know a fair bit about Dwarven cuisine, given that she and Hobson had that Dwarf friend that visited every so often –, though he did end up needing to break for an early lunch.

 

Accompanied by a replenished cake plate, Bilbo wrote through the afternoon. He had some knowledge on Dwarf fashion since he frequented Mannarill but he’d been exposed to clothes that were more suited to a party. The general style wasn’t different from their normal wardrobe but the cloth was more heavily decorate and their jewellery followed suit, as complicated and sumptuous as their wealth allowed, Bilbo supposed. One particular Dwarf had worn a necklace of what had looked like a hundred glittering emeralds – perhaps even more than a hundred.  

 

Sitting back in his chair and absently tapping his chin with the end of his reed pen, Bilbo reflected that Hobbits and Dwarves were not so different from each other (excluding the obvious differences in physical appearance and trades). Both Dwarves and Hobbits were secretive in their own way: the former openly so while the latter were open in some things and secretive in the rest. Bilbo had forgotten that Hobbitish was not spoken around outsiders – though, to be honest, even Hobbits did not speak it all that often.

 

They both also enjoyed the important things in life – good food and good fun (only Hobbit parties were outside beneath a tree and Dwarves shut themselves inside a mountain), as well as family and friends (if Bilbo was to judge by the smiles and laughter he’d seen last night).

 

Knocking on the door brought Bilbo out of his musings, and he placed his plate onto the parchments so they would not be ruffled by wind. He hummed a song (one he’d written himself) and turned the brass knob of his front door.

 

It was Gandalf. Of course it was Gandalf.

 

Bilbo spoke before the Wizard could even open his mouth. “I’m going to say it to you now: _No_.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.” He rocked back on his heels, arms akimbo so that Gandalf could tell that he meant business. The Wizard looked a little taken aback and Bilbo nodded, satisfied. “And that’s that.”

 

“I’m surprised at you, Bilbo. Of all the Hobbits –”

 

Interrupting was the height of bad manners, but he could not help but bristle: “I’ll remind you, _Gandalf_ , that I am a very proper Hobbit indeed, one of Took and Baggins stock. I think my behaviour is more than acceptable, yesterday’s unwise jaunt as a Dwarf aside, and I think –”

 

“Come now, Bilbo, taking the shape of a Dwarf for a few hours does not steal away your preference for tea in the evening.”

 

“I – tea?”

 

Gandalf’s brow cleared. “Ah! So there is tea.”

 

“Yes, but what –?” Bilbo squinted at Gandalf’s back as the Wizard swept in and started to make his way to the kitchen. “Wait! I wasn’t talking about tea!”

 

“I can’t imagine what you’d be talking about otherwise.” He settled onto a bench with a sigh, peering interestedly at the spice bottles Bilbo hadn’t tidied away after making lunch. “It’s not as if anything exciting has happened since I saw you last.”

 

Bilbo honestly could not say that he was surprised. “And I suppose you’ve forgotten that you turned me into a Dwarf, as I just mentioned seconds ago.”

 

“Oh! Yes, I had forgotten, thank you.” Gandalf smiled, folding his hands on the table and looking at Bilbo expectantly. “Did everything go well?”

 

He stared up at that kindly expression and opened his mouth to snap ‘ _Nothing went well!_ ’, but found that he could not. Not _everything_ had gone well during his visit, true, but a lot of it had been fun and informative. He’d not have had an opportunity to observe Erebor so closely or even to go past its enormous entrance. He wouldn’t have been able to sample so many Dwarvish delicacies at one time (especially since, unlike the Gamgees, he had no Dwarf friends). And while did not precisely get to _meet_ new people, he had walked amongst them as an equal and seen them in their home, comfortable with all around them.

 

(He’d also not have learned how solidly Dwarves were built, but that had been an accident and did not bear repeating.)

 

Gandalf nodded. “That does sounds like a fine adventure, Bilbo. I’m happy you enjoyed it and I’m sure you’ll be glad to continue it tonight.”

 

Tonight?

 

It was now that Bilbo realised he had been relating what had happened last night over tea and biscuits. This was certainly some sort of magic, Gandalf’s ability to make anyone do things they didn’t quite want to. Or maybe it was just an ability to make _Bilbo_ do things he didn’t quite want to.

 

All the same, Bilbo lowered his teacup and puffed up in outrage.

 

“See here, Gandalf – I may be grateful for your ‘help’ yesterday –” (mostly grateful) “– but I am not going back tonight, and I am not going to be turned into any sort of shape, least a Dwarf.”

 

“My lad, you aren’t at all making sense.”

 

“I am making perfect sense. I think I learned all I could in one night, so I needn’t return. It isn’t as if I can learn more,” he said, voice loud but still conversational, “since I can’t even speak with any of them –”

 

Gandalf frowned. “Why should that be a problem? You’re a Hobbit – as you say, both a Baggins and a Took with a not inconsiderable standing in society. You’ve much experience with being social at social events.”

 

“Amongst _Hobbits_.” Bilbo couldn’t quite believe that he had to explain this. “These are Dwarves and I –”

 

“Don’t be so silly. They are flesh and blood, same as you. Mortal, too.”

 

This nonsense made frown as well. “Why is that important? Being mortal, I mean?”

 

“It is a commonality.” Gandalf had fished a biscuit from its jar and now waved it dismissively, scattering crumbs. “You’ll find this out when you meet Elves, I’m sure.”

 

Bilbo noted the use of ‘when’ and hysterically wondered if Gandalf meant to turn him into an Elf in the future. The scenario didn’t sound as farfetched now as it would have just one day ago. He shook these thoughts from his mind. “That may be but I tell you, I cannot go back to Erebor!”

 

But Gandalf was already reaching for his staff. “I am a Wizard, Bilbo Baggins, and Wizards do not do things half-heartedly. One more day.”

 

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

Erebor was no less impressive on Bilbo’s second visit and was still filled with enough people and food and cheer to do any party justice. Today, though, the centre of the enormous hall was filled with an arrangement of Dwarves with flutes, lyres, drums, recorders, fiddles, viols, harps, and many instruments yet that he could not recognise. Amongst them were those who sung and chanted, their voices rising over the instruments and filling the hall with music.

 

It was not any music that Bilbo had before listened to, foreign even if he could not understand the words of the songs, but he knew he would have been disappointed to miss it because of his own stubbornness (to avoid smug smirking, though, it was unlikely that he’d say as much to Gandalf).

 

After about two hours – if Bilbo had observed the time-keeping Dwarf correctly – there was a lull, a break for the musicians to eat and rest. The sound of chatter took place of the music. Alarmed, Bilbo awkwardly sidled around, trying to avoid catching anyone’s gaze lest they approached and expected him to converse with them. Even worse was the (unlikely) prospect that he’d be approached by someone he’d met last night who _knew_ he couldn’t converse with them.

 

Finally Bilbo decided he should leave the Mountain. He had tried ‘one more day’, as asked, and he was lucky to experience another piece of Dwarven culture. That was justification enough for him to find the nearest exit.

 

Except, when he did near the entrance hall, he noticed a set of carvings along one wall. They were done in exquisite detail, embellishments made in metals or jewels to highlight colours of the weapons held or clothes worn or features of certain characters. The one before him now clearly depicted some great battle and spanned a height of several feet and the entirety of the length of the wall. Individual Dwarves had been sculpted from the black stone and they battled a host of Orcs and Wolves in the foreground of a great mountain.

 

Rhythmic stamping came from the main hall, making Bilbo jump. The concert must have recommenced: yes, now he could hear singing again, though now the style was more akin to ale-induced pub songs than the structured music he’d heard earlier. But – he glanced back up at the wall. If this really was his last night in Erebor – and it _was_ – then he’d best satisfy his curiosity as best he could in the time afforded to him.

 

So off he went, following the reliefs with the music chasing after him.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo suspected that he’d taken a wrong turn.

 

The bells had tolled eleven o’clock, and perhaps that had brought out enough panic to confuse his internal sense of direction. He was not too bad at finding his way around even unfamiliar places, but those places were above ground where it was easier to keep his bearings. Here he was beneath goodness-knew-how-many-miles of rock without sight of the sun or moon or stars, and navigating the vast halls with their many branches was difficult.

 

Still, he had realised he’d made a mistake, and since this was a (relatively) narrow walkway, hopefully it’d been a small one. He pivoted to retrace his steps – he _attempted_ to retrace his steps.

 

Bilbo only just avoided a collision as he instinctively stumbled back. An apology started on his tongue, but looking up at the other person he felt the words shrivel away.

 

That proud stature and solid build, his handsome face with those thin lips, they were unmistakeable. It was the Dwarf from last night.

 

Well, wasn’t that a coincidence? At least, he hadn’t embarrassed himself again by tripping and falling into this Dwarf’s chest – and, if he wanted to avoid being embarrassed by revealing his ignorance of Dwarvish, he’d best be on his way. Bilbo smiled up at him quickly and made to walk around him.

 

He didn’t expect to be stopped.

 

“ _I'khiz_ ,” said the Dwarf.

 

Bilbo swallowed. It was quite possible that he’d dealt some kind of heinous insult last night by crashing into the Dwarf (though really, it’d been an accident). He did not know if this was an aspect of Dwarvish society – but more importantly, he did not know what the Dwarf had said.

 

The Dwarf frowned, quite an impressive expression as dark bushy eyebrows met in the middle of his heavy forehead. He spoke again, mouth forming words quicker than Bilbo could keep up with.

 

Bilbo shook his head. This sentence (sentences?) was as foreign as the Dwarf’s first utterance. All he knew was that it was unlikely to be an apology, because the Dwarf’s expression had not changed from stern disapproval. In fact, his eyebrows looked even more forbidding; once again he opened his mouth but this time asked a question – or so Bilbo assumed, given the lilt at the end. All the same it was an unanswerable one.

 

Miserable, Bilbo cast his gaze down to his feet and the uncomfortable boots that pinched at them. He could not pretend to be dumb, not when this Dwarf knew he could speak. There was nothing for it. “I cannot understand.”

 

What followed was a long silence, in which the Dwarf presumably boggled at him instead of walking away. It was entirely possible that he in turn could not understand Common – and wouldn’t that make them a pretty pair?

 

(Not to say that the Dwarf was pretty. His skin may have been dark and fit with Bilbo’s preference, and his large nose was sharp instead of the round Hobbit ideal but attractive nevertheless, and he was handsome even with his long hair and beaded beard – but not pretty. Could Dwarves be pretty?)

 

“Why do you speak Westron?”

 

Glancing up in his surprise, Bilbo saw confusion instead of the expected anger. He wrung his hands. “It is the only tongue I can speak.” Besides Hobbitish, but no Dwarf needed to know that. (Hmm, maybe Hobbits were more similar to Dwarves than he’d originally thought…)

 

The Dwarf’s attention grew in intensity. His blue eyes were extraordinary – Bilbo must not have noticed last night, because he’d definitely have remembered them. They were pale and held Bilbo to the spot as surely as if the Dwarf was physically holding him there. Even if he’d not been distracted by the Dwarf’s eyes, Bilbo could not make any guesses as to what he was thinking.

 

“I am Thorin,” the Dwarf said. The set of his mouth was severe, only softening when confusion crossed Bilbo’s face. “Thorin, son of Thráin.”

 

It was not a name Bilbo had heard before – and it wasn’t as if he could pretend otherwise. All it would take was a few pointed questions and his deception would be revealed. Best stay silent. This Dwarf already thought of him as strange, able to understand only one language; pretend knowledge about his identity would only make Bilbo seem stranger.

 

Bilbo could only hope that this ‘Thorin’ wasn’t someone important or well-known.

 

“What is your name?”

 

“B –” Wait, wait, stop. Stop. Oh. Oh, no, _no_.

 

It was perhaps a little late to realise that he’d not come up with a Dwarvish name. Bilbo bit the inside of his lip. In retrospect this wasn’t very clever of him; even if he’d not originally known that Dwarves only conversed in their own language he should have expected such a simple question. He’d even had the whole of today to come up with one, decision not to return aside.

 

“Your name?” the Dwarf prompted. He was frowning again, suspicion beneath his impatient gruffness. “Your outer name.”

 

“Bobil,” said Bilbo, carefully bowing to quickly hide his panicked expression. “Son of um, son of Bungo.”

 

Thorin inclined his head in reply. He still looked troubled after Bilbo straightened.

 

“Is there a problem?” Bilbo – well, Bobil – asked. He hoped his worry was adequately masked – and hoped the name he had chosen did not have some ridiculous or insulting meaning.

 

“I must ask – and you do not need inform me what it is, of course – but I must ask: you have a true name, do you not?”

 

“I…” Bilbo’s mind failed him. “A true name?” It must be that Dwarves had two names – what other explanation could there be for Thorin’s use of the terms ‘outer’ and ‘true’? How interesting!

 

He immediately sobered when he saw that Thorin was taken aback. “Oh, I apologise, I misheard, I thought – yes, I do have a true name. Of course. No need to be concerned.”

 

This assurance went disbelieved. “Did your parents not give you one?”

 

He fought the urge to groan loudly. This Dwarf’s obstinate nature was chafing at Bilbo’s mostly-poor mood. He artfully put his gaze down. “My parents passed a long time ago.” Hopefully that truth would encourage Thorin to keep his big (and nice) nose to himself.

 

It didn’t. “Your family, they must have told you. It is their _duty_.”

 

Bilbo sighed, then squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height – that aspect of him had not changed after Gandalf’s spell and so this meant Thorin was a head taller than him. His glare intended to make up for this (literal) shortcoming.

 

“I do not wish to discuss my family or anyone that raised me. It’s none of your business, especially since we do not know each other.”

 

“I could force you to tell me.”

 

He set his jaw. “You couldn’t force me to do anything. My answer would remain the same.”

 

There was a silence long enough for Bilbo to start wondering if he’d overstepped, but then Thorin chuckled. It was low and short and very pleasant – and it called to Bilbo. Something inside him stood up and starting paying very close attention.

 

“It is good to know that you have a backbone.”

 

Had he passed some sort of test? “Is it often that you encounter Dwarves without a backbone?”

 

“Too many.” Thorin’s head tilted. “I do not count them amongst my friends.”

 

“Your…” Bilbo felt like he was missing a crucial part of the conversation. Best to proceed carefully. “Do you mean… you wish us to be friends?”

 

“No need to sound so surprised. You seem interesting and I want to know you.” His choice of words and tone of voice implied that he would accept no arguments otherwise.

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure if he did want to argue. If he did not, he would have to come up with a plausible life story of Bobil the Dwarf, being very careful with what information he gave. But if he did argue, if he did leave, then he would have to spend the next five nights at home, enduring transforming into a Dwarf and changing back into a Hobbit with no recompense whatsoever.

 

Which did he prefer?

 

“I meant to leave,” he said cautiously. “Before you stopped me.”

 

“You were in a rush, aye.” His smile was small, and yet transformed his face, making it open and kind. “So much so you ran into me yesterday.”

 

Bilbo was quite sure that his beard hid any flush in his cheeks. “So I cannot… I do not have enough time today for us to speak or, or to know each other.”

 

Thorin’s gaze was singularly penetrating. “You could meet me tomorrow. Here, and I could show you to somewhere we can sit undisturbed.” He paused for a bit. “Would you?”

 

Indignantly confused (and surprised that he’d been asked instead of ordered), Bilbo stared at him. “But why? I’m not that interesting and besides, I do not think we have much in common.”

 

“Why shouldn’t you be interesting? I do not yet know you – and I would like to. You are very unique. I’ve not met your like.”

 

“If I’m unique, that’s only because I cannot speak your language!” Telling Thorin that he was a Hobbit would surely settle this argument, but he could not do so. Not if he wanted to avoid getting into serious trouble.

 

Thorin was silent for awhile. Then, “I can teach you.”

 

“Teach me…?”

 

“Khuzdul. The language of our people.”

 

“That – you don’t need to do that.” It would be a pain to wait out his transformations for rest of the week, but it was obvious that Dwarvish – Khuzdul? – was not a language he was supposed to know, and it was not a language any Dwarf should teach him, however persistent they were. He should have made his escape more quickly. “Honestly, it’s a very kind offer but, it’s – you don’t need to.”

 

Thorin looked genuinely confused. “Why do you say that? Even a few words and phrases will help you greatly in the Mountain, since you can only speak Common.”

“Yes, but…” Bilbo swallowed, trying to think quickly. “You don’t teach this language – you do not teach Khuzdul to outsiders.”

 

Confusion melted into understanding. “You are not an outsider,” Thorin said lowly. “You are a Dwarf, no matter what anyone else says. No matter how you have been brought up.” He held up a hand. “I know you have asked not to delve into your family life, but this is something that I should and can rectify.” He grasped Bilbo’s shoulder. “I will teach you.”

 

Bilbo looked up at Thorin, at the way he looked so certain and confident that there was no possible scenario other than the one he’d decided on. Thorin’s hand was warm and heavy on his shoulder.

 

“As for your other objection – neither of us knows if we do or do not share interests or opinions. You are right about that. But I am curious about you, Bobil. And I wish to help you.”

 

“I…” He worried the hem of his overtunic between his fingers and thumbs. His words and wits – his best and most dependable qualities – had failed him completely, and he gaped at the (other) Dwarf like a newly caught fish. “I…”

 

“I should not keep you, if you are to return home soon.” Thorin still hadn’t lifted his hand. “You may think about my… request.”

 

“I will… I will consider it.”

 

“That is all I can expect.” His strong fingers tightened for a moment, then he withdrew. “I hope to see you again, Bobil.”

 

His shoulder felt cool where Thorin had touched him. With a sinking feeling deep in his belly, Bilbo knew he’d already made up his mind. “Goodbye,” he said, knowing that he would come back. 

 

“ _Zirkhgelekh_ ,” Thorin replied, then, “That is how we say farewell.”

 

Semi-successfully managing a smile, Bilbo nodded and – as politely as he could manage under the circumstances – fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'khiz - Stop  
> Zirkhgelekh - Farewell/Good wishes


	6. 3.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: Plays. Thorin convinces Balin to do some research, and then comes up with his own theories on Bobil's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, I seem to be late very often. Thanks to alkjira for putting up with me - and thanks to you all for the same tbh.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Suppositions about abuse (no actual abuse)

Thorin had promised not to ask Bobil about his family, but that didn’t mean he could not find things out by himself. And if he did glean some information he was not about to confront Bobil with it. He was not quite that tactless.

 

In an ideal world, Thorin would have looked through the records on his own. He may not have been as well-read as Frerin but he enjoyed looking through Dwarvish genealogy. He had grown up – as every Dwarf should – on tales of his people and the legends of the past. Just looking at the various family lines called forth those stories and called forth the memories of listening to his parents tell them.

 

To return to the point, it was not quite an ideal world; he had much to be thankful for, to be sure, but he had duties he could not toss away in favour of one strange Dwarf no matter how mysterious and interesting.

 

That did not mean he couldn’t delegate the task.

 

Balin came in just as the meeting broke in favour of lunch. The time bells had chimed three not long ago and most were delighted to descend on the trays of food that’d been brought up. Thorin turned to his oldest friend expectantly. His smile dropped when Balin shook his head.

 

“I could find no such emblem, Thorin. Not in Erebor’s records. It’s not one I’ve ever seen. Are you sure you’ve the correct one?”

 

“Of course I’m sure. My memory is not so bad as that.”

 

“And how many times have you seen this that you’re able to replicate it ‘perfectly’?”

 

“Twice,” he replied mulishly. When Balin did no more than purse his lips, Thorin obligingly muttered, “The first time was fleeting.”

 

“And the second?”

 

“I had about five minutes.” Put like that it did sound stupid. “But I remember. It was on his boots and belt, clear as day.”

 

Balin still looked doubtful. But – “Even so, I will repeat that there are no designs like it despite the many family insignias I’ve gone through, and I’ve gone through them all.”

 

Damn. So much for that plan. He’d have to – wait.

 

Balin narrowed his eyes. “What have you realised?”

 

“Could he be from the Iron Hills? Or some other dwelling?” It was possible. Dwarf merchants came from all corners of Middle Earth, whether as far as the Iron Hills and Grey Mountains or as close as the Blue Mountains and Khazad-dûm.

 

“It is possible,” Balin replied, and gave a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps you can ask Dáin, and show –”

 

“My ears are burning.” Dáin carelessly leaned against the table, resting his stone bowl on Thorin’s carefully arranged quill nibs. One rolled onto the floor – his _favourite_ one, silver with tiny moonstones. “What do you want to ask? And show?”

 

Balin pulled a folded piece of parchment from a pocket. “This.”

 

Dáin accepted it and Thorin explained: “I saw a Dwarf with this emblem, but could not place it. Balin hasn’t been able to find it in our records.”

 

“Is that because your drawing skills are shit?”

 

“I did take that into account. The end result is the same.”

 

Thorin looked between Dáin’ and Balin’s smirks, indignant. “My drawing is as good as any Dwarf’s –”

 

“Don’t insult the skills of others.” Dáin – the filthy hypocrite – turned the parchment upside down. “This almost looks like an acorn.”

 

“An acorn?” Balin asked.

 

“The seed of an oak tree.” Thorin grinned at Balin’s expression. Eye for an eye. He replaced his grin with a frown, turning to Dáin. “I know our people use wood and I know our emblems are usually tied to the family’s trade but – they’re not – they don’t form _shapes_.”

 

“Depends on the family trade.” Dáin _tch_ -ed when Thorin filched a couple of quail’s eggs from his bowl. “Perhaps there was one that worked exclusively with oak, strange as that sounds. Otherwise someone could have made something legendary with a branch of an oak tree – a weapon? Seems a little silly.”

 

“Could be a shield,” Thorin suggested.

 

“Hmm.” Dáin stroked his beard thoughtfully, careful not to disturb the tusks that decorated his moustache. “Thorin Oakenshield. Does have a ring to it.”

 

He refrained from rolling his eyes. “Thank you. But let’s return to the emblem.”

 

“Your imagined emblem.” Dáin turned the parchment again, before sighing and returning it to Balin. “It’s not familiar to me, but obviously I’ve not memorised all in our library. You’re better off asking the Dwarf himself. Might be quicker. And you would’ve spared Balin the hours he’d spent doing your work for you.”

 

“It was hardly hours,” Balin pointed out, “And I said yes when he asked.”

 

“You are too kind for your own good, cousin.” Dáin clapped Balin’s shoulder, shaking him a little as he laughed. “Either that or you leapt at a chance to escape this idiotic meeting and its insipid members. Myself included, before anyone gets their braids in a twist.”

 

“I have no interest in the distribution of ambassadors and armies across all our dwellings. I’d much rather discuss the new mithril veins they’ve found in Moria.” Balin craned his neck to look past Dáin. “Though if young Jari is here…”

 

“You’re only here to gawk at the secretary,” Thorin muttered, filching some more of Dáin’s food. “Don’t let us keep you.”

 

“You know as well as I do that Jari is not a secretary.”

 

“They’re not?” Dáin asked.

 

“No. Their family carries the secret of _Ithildin_. I thought to seek information from a Dwarf who understands the process implicitly.”

 

“He means he wants to understand _their_ process implicitly,” Thorin conspiratorially whispered to Dáin, who laughed and knocked their vambraces together.

 

“That makes little sense.” Balin shook his head.

 

“I note that you’re not denying an interest in something other than _Ithildin_. Or _someone_ ,” Thorin corrected artfully, “other than _Ithildin_. My mistake.” He paused. “If you’ve not enough time you can invite them to one of the plays tonight – to speak, of course. Might be good to watch the one Fíli’s in.” Teasing aside, Thorin did want Balin to be happy, and the play he mentioned would help in wooing Jari. Definitely. Hopefully.

 

Dáin turned his head to look for Jari, seeing that they were observing a quite heated debate between two lords from the Misty Mountains. “In any case, they’re a bit busy.”

 

Balin sighed. “Aye, that seems so. I must be subject to your company for a while longer.”

 

“Thorin’s pining is at least a little entertaining,” Dáin said to him, calling forth a small smile. “Maybe he’ll tell us what’s so special about this fellow.”

 

Thorin quirked his eyebrows. “We’ve all been discussing the unusual emblem he wears. Unless you’ve forgotten already.”

 

“You heard me ask about the Dwarf, not his emblem. Unless you’ve gone deaf already.”

 

Balin looked longsuffering. He had told Thorin in the past that while he’d gotten used to his and Dáin’s banter (“immature bickering”), he did not enjoy it. Instead he rubbed the bridge of his nose and kept silent.

 

“I do not know what’s so special about this Dwarf,” Thorin said, tapping the table with his forefinger, “but I do intend to find out.” He would find out. Tonight.

 

“Well he’s not been scared off by your title of King… but I can tell you one thing that is special about him.”

 

There was already a smile tugging at Thorin’s mouth. “Oh?”

 

“He’s not been scared off by your too-straight too-small nose.” Dáin had always been disparaging about this particular feature. “Or your breath.”

 

Now Balin sighed.

 

Should he bring up the fact that Bobil did not know he was King? Certainly that was a special trait – but he would then need to explain Bobil’s inability to speak or understand their tongue, and that would attract all sorts of questions that Bobil would not appreciate. And then Bobil would know that his confidence had been broken and… Thorin did not want that. He wanted to keep Bobil’s trust. (That he seemed to be the only one keeping it had nothing to do with his decision whatsoever.)

 

Best keep it to himself.

 

“Is there nothing else that’s interesting about this Dwarf?”

 

“I only met him yesterday, calm down. He had to leave early.”

 

“You sure that wasn’t a ruse to flee from your company?”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes at Dáin, but did not admit that he wasn’t sure. He hoped not.

 

It was entirely possible that Bobil would not return tonight. He had made no promises (only hope on Thorin’s part). He’d not even been very keen on the idea to be honest and maybe rightly so; it was wise not to blindly trust strangers. Whether Thorin was a King or a pauper, he was still a stranger to Bobil. Who was he to offer help – whether or not it was wanted in the first place?

 

In fact… who was _Bobil_?

 

There was no question that he was physically a Dwarf, of course. He wore braids in his honey brown hair, one above his ear and one in his beard, undecorated by jewels or beads but that did not necessarily mean anything. His clothes were nothing special, red and green and brown, his boots bigger than one would expect for his height but again not unusual, with only his aforementioned emblem as accents.

 

As for his behaviour and mannerisms – beyond the language problem and not knowing who Thorin was (despite the deliberate introduction) – they were not wholly normal. He was a little skittish and wide-eyed, but the thing that stuck with Thorin the most was his belief that he was an outsider.

 

That any Dwarf could feel that way, could feel like a stranger to their own people, well… it made Thorin sad. It made him want to fix it. He could not fully explain _why_ , but he wanted to help Bobil.

 

And that was why he had made his offer. He did mean to teach Bobil Khuzdul, but he would also teach all he could. He would teach all Bobil wanted to learn.

 

But that would depend on whether Bobil came to him tonight. Thorin hadn’t been able to gauge any interest or disinterest, given that Bobil had been more concerned with leaving.

 

Just what had he been rushing for? Dori’s suggestion of the Dwarf – Bobil – returning home for some extra sleep seemed unlikely here. No one was that alarmed and intent if delayed from their bed. It was a little worrying to Thorin; Bobil’s eyes had been wide and his face pale and he’d unconsciously been wringing his wrists. What could put Bobil in such a state of fear when he’d demonstrated that he was not easily intimidated?

 

Or… _who_ could put Bobil in that state?

 

Not wanting to speak about his family did not mean an absence of family. Thorin did not think that Bobil had lied about his parents’ passing but was that a recent happening or had he been orphaned at a young age? Considering his lack of knowledge circumstances weighed heavily in favour of the latter situation, so he’d obviously have been cared for – or _not_ cared for?

 

He could not speak Khuzdul, when it was their sacred and unchanging language. It was meant to be taught to all Dwarflings by parents and tutors – but taught _after_ learning Westron. So it was not _too_ farfetched that Bobil could speak one tongue but not the other; it was not _too_ farfetched that his guardian(s) had been negligent with Bobil’s education.

 

But being robbed of a true name – either keeping it secret from Bobil or not bestowing on onto Bobil in the first place –, that was…

 

Thorin swallowed. The tomato he’d been eating suddenly tasted sharp and sour.

He could not imagine any Dwarf who would condone such actions but that did not mean such a person did not exist. There was evil in the world still and not all of it was in the obvious shape of Orcs and such creatures.

 

Thror, his grandfather, had often said that the greatest evils lurked inside of any Dwarf, but it was with the will of mind and heart that such urges were tamped down. He’d said that most Dwarves could resist this sickness, but there were those who succumbed.

 

What if Bobil’s family were of that stock? What if they deliberately kept his heritage from him? What lies had they supplied instead? Was that the extent of their crimes? Thorin’s imagination was more than willing to supply the horrific possibilities of their mistreatment of Bobil.

 

Either Bobil protected their identity because of misplaced love or because he was terrified of being punished otherwise. Thorin did not like either option. He would need to sit Bobil down and reassure him, promise him that he would not allow this situation to carry on. He would ensure that Bobil was treated with all the love and understanding that he deserved.

 

“I think Jari’s done with their lunch,” Dáin said, his voice cutting through Thorin’s mental vows. “If you mean to catch them before the meeting recommences, you should do it now,” he advised.

 

Thorin blinked, managing a somewhat-distracted reply when Balin made his farewells. Had he missed a chunk of conversation when he’d fallen into the web of his thoughts? He must have – hopefully not missing anything too important (for example, the extent of Balin’s interest in Jari’s ‘processes’).

 

Now not-distracted, Thorin looked up into Dáin’s expression of deep suspicion. Thorin’s eyes narrowed but there were no invasive questions or ridiculous accusations about his slip in attention. His cousin merely held out his bowl, offering his leftovers – two tomatoes and a small sausage.

 

“I’ll survive until dinner.”

 

Dáin shrugged in a ‘suit yourself’ manner then pushed off the table. “Will you be going to see Fíli’s play?”

 

“Most likely.” It was the first one of the night, so he would have plenty of time to wait for Bobil. Thorin determinedly did not think about there not being anyone to wait for.  “Though we did see most of it last night.” Kíli had had great joy in helping his brother rehearse one last time, if only because it meant he could jump on the furniture without (too much) admonishment.

 

“Not most of it. Just most of his parts.” Dáin tutted. “Really, Thorin, you should support your heir.”

 

“My heir has many to support him, yourself included.” A thought clinked in Thorin’s head. “Will _you_ be inviting that ‘friend’ of yours?”

 

Unlike Balin, Dáin did not grow even the slightest bit flustered. It was very difficult to unsettle him at all, truth be told. “I told you to wait for the dancing on the seventh day. It’s not too long a wait.” He popped the last tomato into his mouth. “You’re acting as if you want to marry her.”

 

“I don’t want to marry anyone.” Except his One, if they were amenable. If he found them. Or if they found him. “But it’s good to hear that there might be a wedding in the future. Good excuse to visit the Iron Hills.”

 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He frowned. “Or myself.”

 

“Just being optimistic.”

 

“That’s your failing.” Dáin snickered. “And I’m done speaking with you, I’m parched. Too bad there’s nothing stronger than the wine, I rather think I’ll need it.” He winked and threw a parting statement over his shoulder: “Best pick up that pen nib before someone squashes it flat.”

 

Sighing, Thorin did duck beneath the table to retrieve it. There was some time yet before the meeting started again – since more than one Dwarf was still finishing up the rest of the food, so he went to rearrange the nibs as he went over his thoughts.

 

Thanks to Dáin and Balin, Thorin’s rather dark train of thought had been interrupted, and luckily so. Now that he had the opportunity to sit back it was clear that all his suppositions were not backed with irrefutable evidence – or evidence at all, really.

 

He had been jumping to conclusions based only on two meetings with Bobil – and as he’d said to Balin, the first fleeting and the second only slightly longer. Bobil’s decision to accept or refuse the offer was not in Thorin’s control. All he could and should do was put this all aside for the moment and concentrate on this meeting and the rest of his duties.

 

All he could and should do was wait.

 

But the thought of – maybe, possibly, hopefully – seeing Bobil again made Thorin eager for the sun to set. He could not and would not and did not stop the hope that remained in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to share my tapioca chips? /hides


	7. 3.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three: Plays. Does Bilbo return to Erebor to meet his teacher and potential-friend? ~~Of course he does, don't be silly.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Wednesday in the western half of the world, I think ;) Thaaaanks to alkjira.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: too many nods to canon that make the author cackle.

“Do you mean… you wish us to be friends?”

 

The Dwarf smiled. “We already are friends.” He put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, gently holding him in place. “No, I wish us to be more than that.”

 

Bravely he took up one of the Dwarf’s hands, pressing it against his cheek and feeling the calluses of the Dwarf’s palm and fingers. “I would like that; more than anything I would like that. But first I must tell you…”

 

“Tell me?” There was so much happiness in his face that Bilbo felt even guiltier about what he was going to say – but he had to say it.

 

Telling the truth was necessary but there were times – such as this – when doing so would destroy any trust that had been placed on him. Despite his practicality there was still hope for love to transcend those lies. There was still hope. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his sides, prepared for the Dwarf – his Dwarf – to pull away and leave him. “I am not… I’m not a Dwarf.”

 

“No, you aren’t. You are a Hobbit, I know.” There _should_ have been disgust, distrust, distemper in his tone and expression. None could be detected. He stroked Bilbo’s cheek, thumb feathering back and forth over his skin. “But why should – how _could_ that make me love you any less?”

 

Bilbo’s eyes shot open.

 

He reached out, hands closing on empty air instead of cloth like he’d expected. The touch on his cheek remained even as his heartbeat slowed and he realised that no one was with him. He was in his bed. There was no one in the room with him, Dwarf or otherwise.

 

Groaning loudly, Bilbo sat up. He could remember that he had been speaking with his Dwarf but the specifics of the conversation and of his face had already escaped him. The dreams were growing stronger – maybe in response to being amongst Dwarves, maybe in response to being changed into one. He didn’t know.

 

A thought suggested that he could ask Gandalf about the dreams but the prospect of sharing them with the Wizard felt _wrong_ suddenly, as if Bilbo now believed that only he could find out the truth of them.

 

Bilbo snorted and ran his fingers through his messy curls. As if it wasn’t difficult enough.

 

He went about with his usual routine for the rest of the day. For breakfast there were eggs, bacon, and potato cheese (Aunt Donnamira’s recipe), sandwiches and soup for lunch, and breaks in between for elevenses and tea. His attempts to write and read were a little tempered since couldn’t concentrate very well, instead dwelling on the offer that had been made to him and on the choice he had to make.

 

By the time evening rolled around and Gandalf knocked on the door, Bilbo opened it with nothing more than smile and a greeting.

 

Obviously having expected an argument or a demand that he leave, Gandalf looked pleased and surprised enough that he only said, “Good evening to you as well, my lad.” He hung his hat and scarf by the door and followed Bilbo through the smial.

 

Bilbo had set out some orange cake and raisin biscuits, and he waved a hand, inviting Gandalf to sit. “Tea?”

 

“I’d not say no to some wine,” Gandalf said lightly. When Bilbo returned with two glasses, he stroked on hand down his beard. “I admit I was expecting more of a fuss than this, my boy.”

 

“Making a fuss won’t help,” Bilbo said. “One of us has to stop being stubborn.”

 

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

 

“As much as it amuses you, I’ve decided to keep my protests and my breath to myself.” The bottle made a dull thunk as he set it on the table. He picked up his glass and let himself relax into his chair, breathing in the scent of dark fruit. “You’ll transform me regardless.”

 

“And you’d still make your way to the party?”

 

Bilbo blinked. “Yes?”

 

“You are at liberty to just stay here. No one is forcing you to go, certainly not me.”

 

Never mind that forcing Bilbo into a Dwarf-shape was perfectly alright. “Why would I do that?”

 

“Why indeed.” Gandalf reached for more wine. His Big-Folk-sized glass had been bought when Belladonna had been alive. “Could it be you’ve found enough reasons to keep visiting Erebor – something or someone?”

 

“It is a big mountain. There are many things and many people.”

 

“You only really need one of either to hold your attention.”

 

Bilbo’s expression remained unimpressed. Gandalf could fish around all he liked. All Bilbo had done was attend the first two days of Durin’s Week, each of his senses barely keeping up with the barrage of information that were Dwarves and their way of life. It was indeed true that Erebor was filled with countless items and people interesting in their own way; the only pity was his inability to understand anything which could then lead to the danger of others finding out and being suspicious of his origins.

 

But then he _had_ caught the attention of a Dwarf who was both stranger and strange.

 

(His own attention had been caught as well, but that was inconsequential.)

 

Really, if Thorin had made his offer on the first day of Durin’s Week, Bilbo would have had little problem with taking it up. Perhaps his hesitation was because he’d decided yesterday to never return to Erebor. He’d given up all possibility of interaction with an actual Dwarf and now that he had the opportunity he was torn between his thirst for knowledge and his guilt over learning something he shouldn’t.

 

Since he would be going back, Bilbo needed to construct a believable backstory for his alias as Bobil. (He despaired that his imagination hadn’t come up with a better name – Bilbor, for example.)

 

So long as Thorin kept his word, at least Bilbo did not have to mention any sort of family. A relief, since then he’d not have to explain where they had come from and why they’d neglected to give him a ‘true name’ or teach him Dwarvish – that is to say, Khuzdul.

 

All Bilbo needed to prepare was a reasonable age, educational background, and work experience; several ambitions, some pertinent ‘memories’, as well as reasons why he’d not visited Erebor or experienced Durin’s Week in the past. And he’d have to make sure that these were all believable. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

 

Realising that he’d remained silent for too long, Bilbo cleared his throat and steeled himself for teasing but Gandalf was apparently done with being bothersome. Bilbo was relieved and let the subject (quickly) drift on to safer ones.

 

Gandalf smiled at him over the rim of his glass.

 

* * *

Stepping in from moonlight and starlight, Bilbo had to concede that Erebor was lit brightly enough to resemble day (and disorient a Hobbit’s internal time). This was perhaps why they were so happy to live inside of a mountain – but this behaviour was a little like moths and Bilbo wondered why they just couldn’t live outside instead, if they enjoyed light same as everyone else.

 

He had not taken any food during Gandalf’s arrival or after, and now did not follow the promising waft of Dwarvish cuisine. He had no appetite for dinner or supper – sacrilege amongst Hobbits and normally an indicator of illness, but the truth was that any hunger had been chased away by nerves and a strange anticipation. Both had taken up residence in his belly, making their presence known as feelings of uneasy nausea and refusing to move away.

 

So rather than being tempted towards the hall – though he could hear snatches of low music and a lot of chatter – he made his way to his and Thorin’s meeting place. As yesterday, there were few others about as he walked; most normal Dwarves would be in the main hall, of course, enjoying whatever entertainment was planned for tonight – Bilbo was clearly not a normal Dwarf (or a Dwarf at all)  and as for Thorin, well. Time would tell, probably. All Bilbo knew for now was that Thorin was a combination of kind and overbearing. Was that strange for Dwarves? Bilbo had certainly not met his like before.

 

And now that he’d arrived, Bilbo met with… no one.

 

Well he was just early, was all. There had been no promise about when they would meet beyond _tonight_ and _here_. Foolishness crept up his back and settled around his shoulders like a heavy blanket and Bilbo leaned back against the wall.

 

It wasn’t inconceivable that Thorin would have other errands to see to, other people to meet with – in fact, those situations were very likely. The sun had set not too long ago, and even if Bilbo had to return home before midnight, he did not think the Dwarves stopped their celebrations so soon. After all, most of them were already home. Given the free flowing ale, he wouldn’t have been surprised that there’d be Dwarves who passed out in corridors either alongside friends or to be later collected by them; just like Hobbits and their parties.

 

Bilbo traced the buckle of his belt, still leaning up against the wall. It was brass like his weskit buttons had been, and its shape was an obvious, if angular, acorn. It was a pattern that echoed along the collar of his undershirt, down the plackets of his overtunic, and of course stamped into a design on his boots.

 

From what he’d seen in Erebor and in Mannarill, Dwarves were quite fond of their patterning. But did these patterns mean anything? Bilbo had never thought about it before. The Dwarves were a practical race so the designs could indicate a Dwarf’s family name or could be spells woven into fabric. Maybe they showed rank or livelihood or age. (Hmm but if it was the last, they’d have to buy new clothes each year; most extravagant. Unless the patterning could be unpicked from the original clothes and a new set of patterning sewed to replace it.)

 

So did the Dwarves see the acorn or did they see runes? If it was the latter Bilbo wondered what the runes stood for; if it was the former he wondered what the Dwarves thought of it.

 

When he could he ought to ask Thorin.

 

Still, Bilbo couldn’t deny that he _was_ alone in the hallway without Thorin in sight. The buckle provided only so much entertainment. Last night Thorin had been quite insistent that Bilbo meet with him and surely that request/demand hadn’t been a lie. Thorin didn’t look like a good enough actor; his arrogance and overbearing character where inbuilt, and so was his earnest offer of help.

 

Bilbo perked up whenever he heard the clomping of boots - but it was inevitably someone passing by on their way elsewhere. He was treated to odd looks and some smiles (luckily no questions or invitations), but not a one of these faces belonged to Thorin.

 

Come to think of it, there was still a chance that Bilbo wouldn’t recognise Thorin straightaway. They’d met only the once - discounting their collision - so it was still possible. But Bilbo could picture the Dwarf in his mind: tall, pale-eyed, skin dark as a hazelnut, and the grey in his hair like light glinting on ripe blackberries. He did not have as complicated a hairstyle as most other Dwarves Bilbo had seen, with only a few braids in his hair and one in his beard, fixed with silver beads. Did that mean he was not very important? He certainly carried himself like he was, but that didn’t necessitate actual consequence.

 

Someone called out and Bilbo’s head jerked up. Looking down the hallway he saw two Dwarves joyously embrace, bashing their heads together and then laughing as if they’d merely kissed cheeks. He winced in sympathy but could not stop the disappointment; still there was no Thorin. Bilbo stared now at his overlarge hands, glaring at the deep ridges and whorls of his palms and fingers.

 

This had been a mistake. Everything had been a mistake. Wishing to attend Durin’s Week. Letting Gandalf cast his spells not once but thrice. Going and actually returning to Erebor. Hoping that Thorin’s offer of friendship and language lessons had been genuine.

 

He clenched his fingers. The biggest mistake was even thinking he’d be able to find –

 

Bilbo all but jumped out of his skin when Thorin cleared his throat, almost but not quite wrenching out of the grip the Dwarf had on his shoulder.

 

Thorin wore a neutral expression along with his dark green tunic and his chestnut-red undershirt. He waited a few moments before pulling back from Bilbo’s personal space, putting his hands behind his back. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Bobil. You did not notice my presence.”

 

“Your presence,” Bilbo replied, voice testy to cover his lingering fright, “is late.”

 

At least now he give the impression of being sorry, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye. I thought I’d be able to find this place again, but I lost my way.” Embarrassment crept into his voice. “Twice.”

 

“Shouldn’t you know your own home better?”

 

This prompted surprise; Thorin looked as he had last night, when he’d been taken aback by Bilbo’s ‘backbone’, brows furrowed and eyes slightly widened. He did not laugh this time, though. He didn’t make any reply at all.

 

Bilbo winced. “Oh.” He really should’ve thought his words through before making assumptions. It was a failing he’d not worked past yet. “Unless this isn’t your home.”

 

“Erebor is my home,” Thorin said. “I live here most of my time.”

 

Then he must have a terrible sense of direction. Bilbo kept that thought to himself and kept silent.

 

“You seem familiar with the way, even if _you_ aren’t from here.”

 

“How do you know I’m not?”

 

The answer was simple and arrogant (much like Thorin himself). “I know.”

 

He must have unknowingly let something slip or given a wrong answer. This ‘pretending to be someone he wasn’t’ was tricky business. “I can always trust my feet to bring me to and from my destination.”

 

“Hmm.” Thorin tipped his head to the side; some hair slid heavily away to reveal a Dwarvishly rounded ear and the silver cuff that decorated it. “Where is your home?”

 

“Not here,” Bilbo said, figuring it a safe enough answer and truthful besides.

 

Clearly unsatisfied, Thorin looked about to ask further, but didn’t. “Let us relocate instead of standing in this corridor. I know a place we’ll not be disturbed.”

 

Despite their being alone, Bilbo conceded that he would rather speak with Thorin where no one could overhear – and hopefully where they could sit down so he could take the weight of his too-small feet. “Are you sure you’ll be able to find it?”

 

Thorin laugh sounded like it was surprised out of him. Bilbo was… strangely thrilled.

 

* * *

“Tell me some of yourself.”

 

“There isn’t – I’m not, I’ve not much to say.”

 

“You only requested that I don’t ask after your family. There are more things about you than that.”

 

Very helpfully, Bilbo’s mind went blank exactly when he needed it most, and he could only remain silent. He _had_ decided to create a backstory for his persona as Bobil but now all the information had scattered – perhaps because they were mostly lies and his subconscious didn’t approve. It sounded ridiculous but entirely true for all he knew.

 

Bilbo looked away from Thorin’s expectant expression, instead looking at the sliver of the moon that hung in the crisp autumn air.

 

The cloudless sky allowed star- and moonlight to catch the facets of the usual carved patterns that decorated the balcony’s railing and the bench Thorin and Bilbo sat on. But the light also fell on the mountain wall behind them; when closed, the door blended in seamlessly with the rock but now the outline of it was defined by a silvery-white glow. He was told its name was _Ithildin_.

 

(And why did something that belonged to Dwarves sound awfully Elvish? If his limited knowledge of Sindarin was correct, it translated into ‘moon-star’ – that could tie in with its property of glowing in the night’s light, or it could only be coincidence. Had this door been made with the help of Elves?)

 

They were the only people there, sat on a low bench. Thorin had been right to guarantee they would not be disturbed – this place was set halfway up the Mountain (which was quite high indeed) and obviously inaccessible from the outside, and only those who had the key could enter this balcony from the inside.

 

That led to wondering why _Thorin_ had the key. It was most curious.

 

A gentle nudge to his shoulder brought Bilbo to the present.

 

“Have I said something wrong?”

 

“Wh – _no_ , no of course not. I just… I’m not quite sure where I should begin.”

 

Thorin’s frown cleared. “What do you do every day?” He managed to sound kind instead of patronising, and Bilbo appreciated the effort.

 

He put this appreciation to the side for the moment so he could answer Thorin’s question. “I have things to do in my home, you know, cleaning and putting things in order. Buying food for the pantry, cooking… It doesn’t take the whole day to do these things, of course, my home isn’t that big that I can’t get everything done in a few hours even if I take my time –”

 

Thorin scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “These are chores. Necessities. What do you enjoy? Or what is your trade?” He adjusted the collar of his undershirt. There was a ring on his finger with a blue stone set into it. “What do you do?”

 

Right, it was time to test the abilities of his brain. “I write,” Bilbo said, forcing it into a statement instead of a question. “Poems and stories, though I do delve into putting down history…”

 

“Oh, a scribe?”

 

He shrugged one shoulder. “Of a sort.”

 

“But you write in Common.” He was good at stating the obvious, was Thorin.

“…yes.”

 

“You are a strange one, Bobil.”

 

Out of context, those words could mean suspicion regarding Bilbo’s story – but here and now there was no distrust when Thorin smiled at him. (As Bilbo was learning, that simple action was able to brighten his face, showing the sentimality and optimism that he hid behind his forbidding eyebrows.) “Well what is _your_ trade?”

 

“Smithing, to make weapons and armour. I work mostly with steel and iron.”

 

He nodded. “What about knives? Or skillets?”

 

“I’ve…,” Thorin faltered, “I’ve never tried.”

 

“Oh. Alright.” Perhaps he needn’t have voiced that particular thought. “Maybe you should try?”

 

“I don’t know who I would make them for.”

 

“There are Dwarves who sell them in Mannarill, I’ve seen them.”

 

An ‘ah!’ of realisation crossed Thorin’s face. “So you frequent the market town. Do you work there?” His gaze dropped, taking Bilbo in from head to toe (and making him blush under the scrutiny). “I only ask because your skin looks sun-dark.”

 

“I visit it every so often,” Bilbo replied carefully. His hands were fists in his lap and he had to make an effort to relax them. “And yes, I am often outside in open air.”

 

“Of course.” Thorin nodded knowingly, but Bilbo had to wonder if he actually understood his reasoning or was merely pretending. “Have you been in Erebor for Durin’s Week many times before?”

 

“No this… this is my first time.”

 

Shock fluttered across his face, not quite hidden. “How do you feel about what you’ve seen until now?”

 

Bilbo thought about the two days he’d been in Erebor, focusing on the positive aspects of his experiences. “Well it’ been fascinating. Unique. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life, and I do not think I ever will.” Not least because he would never be allowed to take part in anything Dwarvish after the seventh day of celebrations.

 

Thorin puffed up proudly. “Did you have a preference between the first and second days?” At Bilbo’s nonplussed look he clarified: “Do you have a preference for food or music?”

 

“Ohhh – are there different themes for each day, then? Feasting on the first and music on the second?”

 

“Aye. Each celebrates different aspects of Dwarvish culture, one each for the seven fathers.” Small pause – perhaps waiting for a reaction, so Bilbo nodded as if he knew what was being explained. “Today there are plays: stories that are acted out, legends and history of our people.”

 

“I do know what plays are, thank you. Do these stories include other races?”

 

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. “When they appear in our history, yes. Most of the time they are Men and Elves.” His mouth twisted at the mention of Elves.

 

“And Hobbits?”

 

Here he huffed out a laugh; his chuckles died away when he realised that Bilbo was being serious. “No, there are no Hobbits in our plays. We gladly trade with them, and there is much friendship between our people, but Hobbits have not been capable of such feats as befits a place in our history. As you would know – as Dwarves would know since they are educated in such things as they grow older.”

 

Bilbo held Thorin’s gaze silently for a long time. Though he could concede that Hobbits were not in the habit of running off for adventures, whether or not in a company of Dwarves, Thorin’s blithe disregard made him feel personally insulted. Finally he said quietly, “I have told you not to pry into my past.”

 

Thorin inclined his head instead of saying sorry. He tugged on the braid by his ear, which was secured not with a clasp but by a thin metallic thread. “I promised to teach you Khuzdul.”

 

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed, when Thorin did not continue.

 

“Why don’t we start with a few basic words?”

 

“Yes,” he said again, for lack of a better reply. As Thorin expounded on the Khuzdul word of farewell (z _irkhgelekh_ , as he’d said before), Bilbo glanced across the land that lay before Erebor, looking past Mannarill and to Hobbiton. There lay Bag End, some miles and minutes away – and yet, unlike the last two nights, Bilbo felt no urgency to return to his home. He would need to listen for the bell tolls and leave at the eleventh hour but for now there was no rush.

 

He turned back to Thorin, mouth forming unfamiliar syllables and repeating the word back at him and waited to have his pronunciation corrected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I'll be going to New Zealand for holiday and the flight's tomorrow. Just a warning that next week might be late D=
> 
> Anyhow, hope you're having a good day, and don't forget to check out [synchronyshattered's fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2773817/chapters/6972971).
> 
> (@synchrony - little easter egg for you up there)


	8. 4.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: Tournaments.
> 
> Thorin thinks briefly about his new (maybe-)friend, sits in on a meeting with his brother and their cousin, then goes to find a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I can only apologise. This is more than a week late. I hope the chapter makes up for the wait.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: talk of weapons and fighting.

Thorin languidly stretched. He yawned and blinked away the remnants of any dreams behind his eyelids. He’d never been able to remember any of them, not even the nightmares, though he did have to deal with all the emotions felt after. At present he lay back in bed feeling warm and unwilling to get on with getting up.

 

He sank back into his pillows, eyes half-closed, slowly wandering from one thought to another until he settled on his meeting with Bobil last night.

 

Without sounding too conceited, Thorin considered his choice of meeting place a good one. Its location was only known by his immediate family; his father had passed the key to him not long before he’d passed to Mahal’s Halls. Thorin’s parents considered the outlook an opportunity to escape when their duties – or their children – became too much to deal with. The balcony was private and had an incomparable view, perfect for being with Bobil.

 

The lesson had been shorter than Thorin had planned; they had only managed the most basic of greetings and farewells.

 

Bobil had been more preoccupied with inconsequential things. He kept asking for needless details on pronunciation, trying to get it as perfect as he could, more perfect than a first time learner could ever expect. He’d also been interested in the practical applications of the words and phrases he was being taught, namely _Thorin’s_ application of them. Bobil was (or seemed to be) genuinely interested in all the stories Thorin offered, nodding and smiling and frowning as was expected of him.

 

Thorin would have said that this was some sort of delaying tactic to prolong the lesson and spend a longer time in his presence, but Bobil had left at the eleventh toll of the bell. He wasn’t as frantic to leave Thorin’s presence as he had been the night before, but he was still quite anxious as he watched Thorin open the door with his key. He’d turned down the offer of an escort to the Gate, leaving with a hurried goodbye (in Common). Thorin was left alone.

 

All the same, he was also left with the experience of Bobil’s pleasant laugh; it suited his personality well.

 

Lazily scratching his belly and then lower, Thorin focused on other aspects of Bobil. He continued to be the most unique Dwarf Thorin had ever met not least because he was very tight-lipped about details of his life for all that he was interested in Thorin’s. Thorin couldn’t really find fault with this, since he was keeping rather important information from Bobil.

 

Bobil was obviously unaware that Thorin was King, so why not tell him? Was Bobil’s ignorance feigned and, if not, would the knowledge cause him to treat Thorin differently? He did not seem like that sort of person.

 

Now that Thorin considered it, it would be strange to inform Bobil now instead of the first time they’d spoken. It’d make it look like Thorin had something to hide – or Bobil could think him an outrageous liar. Maybe… maybe he ought to wait until the last day of Durin’s Week, when he’d know Bobil better enough to ascertain the legitimacy of his friendship.

 

Until then he would keep his Kingship secret. It was for the best, really.

 

The breakfast bell sounded and Thorin jerked upright. His thoughts had wandered further than he’d meant and it was time to rein them in and concentrate on the day that lay ahead. He had meetings to attend, one more official than the other – hopefully just those two. But first he needed to make himself presentable.

 

At least he needn’t worry about removing any clothes before his bath.

 

* * *

Glóin didn’t look up from the sheaves of parchment in front of him. “Was there some difficulty getting here?”

 

“No?” Thorin frowned.

 

“Truly? Colour me surprised.”

 

“I am only a little late.”

 

Glóin snorted behind his beard. “You’re always ‘a little late’, Thorin.”

 

Already knowing where this was going, Thorin rolled his eyes. “That may be, but not because I lost my way to your office.”

 

“For once,” Frerin butted in, clamping an arm around Thorin’s wider shoulders, bangles jangling. Putting on a self-sacrificing expression, he earnestly added, “It took all my skill to keep him from straying.”

 

“You don’t have much skill to begin with,” Thorin sniped, trying to elbow his brother in the ribs. “Stop squirming, tiny-Topaz.”

 

“ _Nadadel_ –”

 

“Didn’t think you’d be here, actually.” Ignoring the tousling of the King and Heir Apparent, Glóin rifled through the mess on his portion of the table, pleased when he managed to pull out an abacus with jet beads without causing an avalanche of notes. “Since Frerin is overseeing the tournaments and you are not.”

 

True. “That doesn’t mean I cannot be present.” Thorin didn’t miss the muttering from his brother about having little faith, and so cuffed Frerin on the ear before releasing his hold. “Someone needs to keep an eye on him.”

 

“Yes, you are very helpful,” Frerin snarked. “Very selfless. Almost as if you hadn’t passed this off on me.”

 

“I had to entrust it to someone who can carry it out, and carry it out well.”

 

“Ooh, very silver tongued. Has Dáin been teaching you?”

 

Thorin thought he’d heard wrongly. “ _Dáin_?”

 

“Your diplomacy skills are about equal, my brother.” Frerin tried and failed to neaten his mussed hair, instead twisting all his braids into one tail that tumbled down his back in a mess of chains and beads. “Though you have improved a little in the last decade.”

 

“I can only hope to live up to your expectations,” Thorin said dryly.

 

“Are you both going to bicker the whole morning away?” The abacus beads went _clack-clack_ as Glóin went over his accounts. “You’re worse than Gimli and Fíli and Kíli.”

 

“We three were as bad when we were their age.” It was a strange and pleasing echo between two generations, now that Thorin thought about it. Strange and pleasing, and also able to make him feel quite old indeed. He wondered if this same situation would repeat during a future Durin’s Week when Fíli was King.

 

“Except this time I’m not involved in your argument,” Glóin said.

 

“Give me a moment,” Frerin smiled brightly, “I’ll come up with something.”

 

Glóin cast a pointed look at both of them as he rose from his seat. “Better leave and go start the meeting. Gimli’s first bout is an hour past noon, and I’d like to cheer my son on.”

 

The tournaments always attracted hundreds of Dwarves with entries spanning the three categories of ranged, melee, and freehand combat, and their respective subcategories. The draws started at least a month before Durin’s Week in order to pare them down to a manageable number that fit the allotted twelve hours today. Gimli must be in the final rounds in his chosen category; the lad was a promising warrior. “Battle or throwing axe?”

 

“Both,” Glóin answered. “But I don’t know that he’ll win at throwing, he’s not the most patient of Dwarves.”

 

“Neither are you,” Thorin muttered.

 

“He’s gotten this far,” Frerin reassured, as if Thorin hadn’t spoken, “I’m sure he’ll do well.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to watch his bout as well, so if everyone is ready…”

 

As promised, the extent of Thorin’s role this morning was to sit aside and savour being able to let Frerin take charge. But it wasn’t only smugness that explained his presence.

 

Should anything happen to Thorin, Frerin would take the throne. It was not so impossible a scenario – Thorin could die in battle, could be assassinated, could even fall prey to _sickness_ – and though he did not doubt his brother’s capabilities, he felt proud to see them in practice.

 

Needless to say, the ability to lead and direct a meeting wasn’t the only skill needed to be King, but it was a necessary one. This wasn’t so much a meeting as an opportunity to ensure everything was in order. As with the arrangements for the other nights and their respective themes, all the details had been settled a long time ago and this was the last opportunity to bring up problems, if there were any.

 

“…in the last half century, and in my opinion we should return to stone benches. It is not as if wooden benches are more comfortable; they rot, they are not as strong, and they are not Dwarvish. We are strong and hardy, and so should our benches be.”

 

Since his brother would be overseeing the tournaments, would _his_ special chair be made of stone or wood?

 

Frerin had two fingers hooked into one hoop earring, a sign of tiredness even though his expression remained polite. “These are all good points, Lord Athfur, but to return to the point – are there any pressing problems with the seating?”

 

“I should hope not,” he huffed. “If there are any problems it will be due to those who are to be seated, rather than we who arranged the seats.”

 

Thorin was again grateful that he was observing instead of chairing, this time because it gave him the opportunity to roll his eyes. Lord Athfur was a tiresome bore for all that he was half Thorin’s age. Thorin doubted that he’d ever raised a finger to arrange a seat for anyone.

 

“But problems with the seats, aye; I will maintain that the current preparations show a poor example to our kin. They will look askance and assume that we cannot provide adequately for them.”

 

Thorin leaned forward, mouth open to snap a question, but Frerin discreetly waved a hand and he subsided. Glóin met Thorin’s gaze; with matching frowns, they turned to watch what Frerin would do.

 

“What exactly are you implying?”

 

“I am not _implying_.” Lord Athfur raised his thin eyebrows at Frerin. “We are dependent on Hobbits for far too many things; lumber should not be one of them.”

 

Frerin lowered his gaze, scrawling something onto a spare piece of parchment. “Is it just the lumber trade that you are against?”

 

“It is the only one I would like to raise that is pertinent to our current discussion.”

 

“I understand. And are these personal feelings or conclusions backed by evidence?”

 

“They’re both.” Though Lord Athfur did not show any outward indication of being anything other than confident, his voice wobbled enough to suggest that his answer could have been phrased as a question. “My lord Prince, I do not think that this is the right time to talk about this.”

 

“I agree that it’s not the right time,” Frerin said affably. “But we _will_ talk about it all the same. I do not deny that you are entitled to your poor opinion of Hobbits, but I wonder how such dislike could be placed on a race that is not only non-threatening but also openhearted.”

 

He held up a finger when the stuffy Dwarf made to protest, supplementing a glare as a warning.

 

“In any case your education is lacking.” This was a calm statement rather than a suggestion. “Trade with the Hobbits has happened since Erebor’s founding – when they aided our people ten centuries ago without needing a promise of material wealth. They may not be able to aid us on the battlefield, but we cannot aid them in fields and farms. The point of trade allies is complementing each other by supplying what the other does not have.”

 

Sprawling back in his seat, Frerin thumbed the gold hoop in his nose. “Wooden benches are not without fault, and neither are stone benches. Additionally, lumber goes to more purposes than carpentry, if you have forgotten the trades of bowyers and tinkers and instrument-makers – and these are the ones that first come to mind.

 

“I will suggest, for future reference, you learn the difference between rational argument and allegation tinted with personal prejudice.”

 

Thorin smiled.

 

* * *

“May we talk?” Thorin asked.

 

Glóin looked unamused. “Since you interrupted my conversation with Mhel, I’ve no choice.”

 

“I didn’t interrupt,” he protested, “they excused themselves.”

 

“Because you were glowering over there.”

 

Blink. “I wasn’t glowering.”

 

“Thorin. You glower.”

 

“Glóin. I don’t. I was standing to the side, waiting to speak to you.”

 

“You have an air of impatience at the best of times, and a very noticeable presence.” He snorted. “Your scowly brow hardly helps matters.”

 

Why did his relatives persist in being disparaging about his features? Were they exchanging notes – no, irrespective of that, what had he ever done to them? “Now that I have chased away your previous conversation partner, can we proceed?”

 

“Since I haven’t run away from you, spit it out. I have accounts to settle before I can go to the fighting rings.”

 

Thorin cleared his throat, making sure that no one was listening in as he angled his body towards Glóin. “Whenever you can, I’d like an estimate cost for a handjoining ceremony and the accompanying celebrations. As detailed as you like, giving options for lengths – anything up to a fortnight.”

 

Glóin looked as if he’d been hit over the head with the flat of one of his axes. “You want me to draw up a budget for a wedding?” He met Thorin’s nod with a frown. “This isn’t adding up with what I’ve heard.”

 

“Obviously there are formal procedures to go through, but that can wait for actual confirmation, so now I’d –” Confusion caught up with him. Maybe his cousins _were_ exchanging notes behind his back. “What exactly have you heard?” Just how many exaggerations had he been told?

 

Thorin appreciated that Glóin did not dither or delay. “You have shown interest in a Dwarf.”

 

“I’ve made a new acquaintance, yes.” Thorin would have called Bobil a friend, but he wasn’t quite sure that they were yet. “I do not see what that has to do with my request.”

 

“And that’s what gave me pause. Not that it’s too late for you to settle down, and I’d be as glad as anyone to see that you’re happily so, but a marriage so soon…” Glóin sighed, a fond smile on his lips – and then it fell away. “Unless this Dwarf is your One?”

 

“Glóin, I’m talking about Dáin.”

 

“Wh –?” Glóin stared up at him for a moment, frowning mightily. Then he rolled his eyes. “I see. Then I’ll change the question: has Dáin found his One?”

 

“He’s found the Dwarf he wants to marry. But again, no confirmation has been made. He doesn’t yet know if she will dance with him or not.”

 

He let out a wobbly whistle. “It is a big decision, Thorin. She’ll be binding herself to the Lord of the Iron Hills – she may be capable of filling that position, but love may not be enough of an incentive to agree with a proposal.” Glóin huffed out a laugh. “Anyone marrying _you_ would have to face the same considerations.”

 

“We’re not talking about _my_ getting married.” Thorin crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“We’re talking about your guess that Dáin will get married. And why would he do so here? His home is over the Misty Mountains.”

 

“Ah, yes, but Erebor is Cira’s home,” said Thorin. He shifted in place. “We should arrange a handjoining ceremony here, and then the newlyweds and certain guests can travel to the Iron Hills and then celebrate their handjoining there. Or the other way around.”

 

“‘Certain guests’ include you, I assume.”

 

“I wish to support my cousin,” Thorin said lightly. “It will be a good opportunity for Fíli and Kíli.”

 

“You’re planning on leaving the lads here? Who will be regent?”

 

“I haven’t decided; I must discuss it with Frerin and Dís.” He waved a hand impatiently. “But that’s a question for a future that is not yet set in stone. I would like that budget – perhaps after the last day of the Week? Then we can see if we need continue with this plan.”

 

“How lavish do you intend this theoretical handjoining to be?” Glóin dragged his fingers through his thick beard; the red hair was weaved through blue beads while the ends were left free. “You’re not going to drain the Treasury, are you?”

 

“I know you won’t let me do that.” Thorin’s smile was minute. “Estimates of possible options is all so I can decide on a present for Dáin and his possible wife.”

 

“It’s hardly a present from you if the Treasury is paying for it.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “A present from the kingdom of Erebor as a whole, then.”

 

“Hmm.” Glóin hefted his notes and abacus, tucking them more securely under his arm. “So: venue, decorations, food, labour costs, and so on?” When Thorin nodded, he nodded in return, gaze already unfocused as he thought. “I’ll get it done.”

 

Thorin clasped his shoulder. “After Durin’s Week. Now you have to join your wife.” He smirked. “See if little Gimli can go up against Dwalin in the final bout.”

 

Glóin laughed. “My son will win that gold axe, Thorin.”

 

“And I’ll be happy to watch that happen.” He inclined his head in farewell and, as Glóin was walking away, called, “If it happens.”

 

But that was for later in the evening; he would bring Bobil to spectate some of the bouts. He’d not yet met any Dwarf who didn’t enjoy the tournaments. He would not be able to show his own skills to Bobil, but tonight would be a good opportunity to show the skills of his kith and kin. It would be perfectly safe – Bobil would not connect the names to their standing in the kingdom – and both of them would enjoy the fourth day without problems.

 

For now Thorin had to see someone else about another type of prize altogether.

 

* * *

When Thorin’s boot squeaked softly on the marble tile, Nori immediately had a knife in hand. “One more step and you’ll lose an ear, Thorin.”

 

“How are you so sure it’s me?”

 

“Other than the fact that you’ve just confirmed it? There’s a very specific combination of sounds made by your clothes and armour and jewellery.”

 

Thorin continued forwards. “Really?”

 

“No. I saw your reflection.” Nori guffawed. “Anyhow, my aim’s not too bad, but this piddly knife couldn’t cut your ear off. It’d pierce through the shell or maybe bounce off your cheekbones. Might land in your eye.” He passed the knife to Thorin. “Bit worse than if something landed in your eye during other activities.”

 

Thorin ignored this and Nori’s accompanying snickers. He sat at the table. “This isn’t too bad quality for something so ‘piddly’.”

 

“Never said it was bad quality. Just small. And the balance’s a bit off.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Is it really that difficult to see?” Nori produced an apple from somewhere about his person and then used it to gesture to the items he had strewed across the table surface. “I’m obviously managing my many criminal franchises. Hundreds of them. Thousands.” He retrieved his knife from Thorin and started peeling. “Ask me about my plans.”

 

“Your plans.” Thorin fought to keep his lips from twitching. “I must ask about them.”

 

Biting into an apple and snorting at the same time led to undignified coughing, but Nori rose above it. He rested a hand on the table and leaned in conspiratorially. “I mean to overthrow the throne, you see. Messy business, but there’s nothing for it. The King’s a complete clot.”

 

“Ha!”

 

“But first I have to sell my boot polishing and silver stamping businesses. I need the money.” He offered the last slice of apple; Thorin shook his head. “Now tell me, clot, why’re you here?”

 

“I wanted to ask if there are any problems.”

 

“There are many problems. The most pressing is the fact that Ori’s getting too many requests to dance.”

 

Thorin chose not to point out that this was expected. Ori’s beauty drew many suitors, there were no secrets about it. “You should only have to worry about the one he agrees to.”

 

Nori snorted. “He’s said yes to them all.” At Thorin’s raised eyebrows, he amended: “Yes to the ones he likes, and no to the ones he doesn’t. You know how he is.”

 

Thorin did. For someone who looked so timid, Ori’s forthrightness tended to surprise people. He took after Dori in that way (whereas Nori preferred stringing things out and never saying anything straight if he could approach it in a twisty fashion). “And if Ori hasn’t made it clear he dislikes them, the refusal would serve as a suitable opportunity,” he pointed out.

 

“Yes.” Nori frowned. “This would be easier if he’d be clear about who he’s interested in.”

 

“Does he have a One?”

 

“He won’t tell us – either of us. I’ve no idea why he’s keeping it a secret –”

 

“To keep you from interfering?”

 

“All it’s doing is making Dori’s tea stores dwindle. And making my braids messy.” Nori exhaled noisily. He absentmindedly flipped his knife, the blade flashing. “Siblings shouldn’t be allowed to – to do all this. It makes everyone else stressed.”

 

“But they’ll find their own way.” He hid a wince. Dís had not been pleased when Thorin’ and Frerin’s first (unofficial) meeting with Víli had been filled with threats (she was especially displeased with the ones regarding Víli’s axe handle) – and they’d _known_ that Dís and Víli were each other’s’ Ones. “I’m sure Dori had the same stress when you came of age.”

 

“Dori’s worry for me is for completely different (and probably valid) reasons,” Nori said. “Unlike some Dwarves I enjoy my own company. Friends are all well and good, but a relationship beyond that… I don’t think so.” He winked. “Doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.”

 

“You don’t need to go into specifics, thank you.”

 

“Oh, but Thorin, I thought you’d _love_ some details,” Nori purred, fluttering his eyelashes. Somehow his attempts at looking innocent always backfired spectacularly. “You did the last time.”

 

“Your details weren’t bad, just –”

 

“ _Oh_?” His grin was wide. “Always very gratifying to hear that. Nice to know I’m appreciated by royalty, and not just one prince –”

 

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nori…”

 

“He does love his topazes, doesn’t he?”

 

“Just stop.”

 

“Fine. I’ll not tease anymore.” A beat. “Today.”

 

Thorin chose not to reply; too busy suppressing horrible images.

 

“To get back to the point, there have been no problems as those you’re anticipating. Every entry is paid up front.” Nori tucked his knife into the lapel of his jerkin. (Fíli had a similar sheath beneath his furs.) “Otherwise there’d be no pot.”

 

Thorin sat back and laced his fingers over his belly. “Alright.”

 

“What were you going to do if there were problems?” Amusement tugged at the corners of Nori’s mouth. “Track down those involved and punish them?”

 

“I could.” He tipped his head to the side. “I’m King, if you remember. I have many Dwarves in my service.”

 

“Oh?” Nori licked his thumb and smoothed down his eyebrows. These and the rest of his braids were even and secure; not a hair out of place, not a one of them loose in any way. “And you want the crown to be associated with gambling?”

 

“If the crown didn’t approve, this betting pool of yours wouldn’t happen at all.”

 

Nori cooed. “Your naïveté is a precious gem and should be secreted away in a mithril casket.” There was a flat disc of carved bone on the table; he picked it up and smoothened the inner spaces with a needle file plucked from his hair. “Anyhow, these betting pools have been going on for years and years before my birth. Before _your_ birth, for that matter.” He peered at his work. “I’ll admit that I’ve improved on the system, but you should know better than to come down here and teach _me_ about –”

 

Thorin waited.

 

“O _ho_.” Nori’s green eyes were wide and sparkling. “Does a certain clot mean to bet against his own sister?”

 

“Oh please. I don’t mean to lose.” He made a contemplative noise and then said, “Not too much.”

 

“You had someone make the bets on your behalf. A fake name?”

 

Thorin hesitated. “‘ _Abini_.”

 

“…what?”

 

“It’s just a name from my youth,” he said, quickly trying to change the subject: “Let’s discuss my final bets –”

 

“‘ _Abini_? Oh that’s so _sweet_ , Thorin, it really suits you –”

 

“I never said it was _my_ name –”

 

“Calm down, calm down. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

 

Thorin waited for the other axe to fall.

 

“As long as you don’t make me angry.” Nori sighed and returned his attention to his carving. “Not that I don’t already have a wealth of information to use against you.”

 

He wouldn’t have expected otherwise. “Now may we continue with my final bets?”

 

“Perhaps.” Nori dusted bone dust off his vambraces. “May we discuss your acorn friend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nadadel – brother  
> Athfur – bore  
> ‘Abini – fragment of gem
> 
> Shire founded: TA 1601  
> Erebor founded: TA 1999 (established as a Dwarven stronghold)
> 
>  
> 
> I know it goes without saying that the Dwarves speak Khuzdul to each other during this chapters, and therefore Thorin's nickname for Frerin (tiny-topaz) isn't translated. And yet I use _nadadel_ in the next line. That's down to laziness on my part, I do hope it's not a put off.
> 
> Also I'd like to clarify - Nori and Frerin have bedded each other before. In this 'verse, both are aromantic, Frerin is greysexual and Nori pansexual. Just to banish any doubts.
> 
> And for the last: because I'm a moron, I completely forgot that Thorin III would've been an adult Dwarf at this time - and since Dain is trying to woo Cira here, technically Thorin III doesn't exist in this 'verse.  
> I suppose, if I wanted to pretend that I hadn't made this blunder, we could assume that the Stonehelm is in the Iron Hills.
> 
> Otherwise, I'm quite happy here in NZ! Thanks so much for reading =)


	9. 4.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: Tournaments.
> 
> Bilbo is introduced to Thorin's siblings. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: talk of weapons and fighting.
> 
> Anila, will you ever post chapters on time? Track record says no. *collapses at your feet* I'm so sorry.

When all the noise and uncomfortableness faded away, once he had blinked away all the bright spots from his vision, Bilbo glanced down at himself and then glared up at Gandalf.

 

“I don’t see why my clothes are always the same,” he complained, plucking at his overtunic. What was the point of having an extensive and fashionable wardrobe when he wasn’t able to gift the sight to others? Humph. At least these magically-induced unchanging clothes did not come with any unfortunate odours or stains. “If anything they ought to match the clothes I was wearing.”

 

“Magic is not a slave to serve you at your beck and call. There are limitations and rules.”

 

“You mean you have no idea.”

 

Gandalf harrumphed. “It shouldn’t matter. You’re one in a thousand Dwarves and otherwise they aren’t going to gossip about one Dwarf’s one set of clothes.” He raised his eyebrows, gesturing at Bilbo with a biscuit. “Unlike Hobbits, I might add.”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

 

“Anyhow,” Gandalf said, taking a bite and spraying crumbs across the table, “it’s hardly going to matter. You’re supposed to be meeting with as many Dwarves as you can. You’ve not spent all these nights with the same person, have you?”

 

“Of course not.” It wasn’t really a lie. He’d ‘met’ many Dwarves on the first night, the feast night. T’wasn’t his fault he couldn’t understand them. And t’wasn’t his fault that Thorin chose a lesson place that was so isolated from other people.

 

Still, Thorin hadn’t made any comments about Bilbo’s clothes or appearance, so he might be making a mountain out of a Hobbit hole.

 

“Hmm.”

 

“‘Hmm’?”

 

Gandalf was already shaking his head. “It’s nothing, dear fellow. Are you enjoying yourself? There’s half a week left.”

 

So there was. It seemed longer. “Yes,” he said, thinking of his new friend (?). The Dwarf was the one who’d saved him from wasting the opportunities he had in Erebor. His chances of finding _his_ Dwarf were likely non-existent, but he was happy to have found Thorin. And: “I’ve learned so much already.”

 

“Good,” Gandalf said, as if this had been his plan all along. Alright, it _had_ been his plan to turn Bilbo into a Dwarf, but that hadn’t been so much of a plan as a ‘let’s see what happens I’m sure it’ll be quite fun’ sort of affair. “That is good to hear.”

 

Bilbo glanced out the window; the light streaming through bathed the kitchen with patches of orange. He was reminded of his childhood and his habit of ‘decorating’ the walls with whatever writing material he could get his chubby hands on. Then he thought about the decorations – stylised patterning – on the walls of Erebor.

 

“Are you going to chase me away?” Gandalf asked, having caught the direction of Bilbo’s gaze. “You may tell me that you’ve tired of my presence.”

 

“It’s hardly because of your presence.” For once. “But I’d rather not have Gandalf _and_ a strange Dwarf walking away from Bag End. There’ll be all sorts of gossip and I’ll not have it, not if I want to walk around Hobbiton without being tutted at.”

 

Gandalf rose to his feet, head almost brushing the ceiling. He took another biscuit, speaking as he munched through it. “Do relax, Bilbo. These are Hobbits, not Wargs.”

 

“I’d just as soon deal with the Wargs,” Bilbo muttered, not quite sure that this was a true preference. He didn’t have any experience in the matter but nothing was worse than dealing with the pointed disapproval of friends and relatives and people who filled neither characteristics.

 

“Then I will advise: fire will be useful against them.”

 

“I’ll take that into consideration.” He snorted. “Goodbye, Gandalf.”

 

“Goodbye, my boy.

 

* * *

 

Entering an enormous hall, Bilbo found himself again amongst a crowd of Dwarves. They were no less diverse than the first night of Durin’s Week and dressed no less colourfully and bedecked no less shinily; but they were far noisier, calling and clapping and crying out. Though he still did not what they were saying, their emotions were clear on their faces and palpable in the air besides. If this had been his first experience in Erebor he’d have turned back and scuttled home in a thrice.

 

Yet this time Bilbo did not feel as awkward and alone.

 

Thorin walked by his side. He’d insisted on taking Bilbo to the fighting rings – as they were where the tournaments would take place – despite Bilbo’s misgivings. His worry was someone approaching them and expecting him to speak (with a tiny accompanying worry that Thorin would explain Bilbo’s situation), worry that only became worse when Thorin was immediately approached by no less than five Dwarves.

 

But Thorin only returned the greetings, spending only moments with each Dwarf before moving on. When he caught Bilbo’s relief, Thorin assured that all he would need to do was smile if so he wished. They made sure to walk closely together with Thorin hunched over slightly so that they could keep their voices quiet and hide the fact that they were speaking in Common. No one seemed to want to linger in their presence, and those who might have done so were sent away with curt Khuzdul.

 

“I’ll not be ensnared in a conversation and leave you stranded. I mean to keep you in my company this night.”

 

“Well I’m grateful, though no one’s likely to steal _me_ away from you.” Wait. Perhaps he ought to phrase that differently. “I mean, er… well there’s hardly any point in being here without you.” Oh, he was just making this worse. “Let me – just ignore what I said earlier. I agree with what you said, I’d like to be in your company. I _do_ like being in your company.”

 

“That’s good to know,” Thorin said, chuckling. “Else this week would be quite trying.”

 

Thorin didn’t know the half of it. Bilbo was out of his comfort zone in Erebor, constantly assaulted with foreign concepts and language, closely guarding any information he gave so that nothing suspicious slipped out, and of course dealing with the indignity of his transformations to and from a Dwarf.

 

But meeting Thorin had been an unexpected sunbeam through thunderclouds; Thorin who was overbearing yet kind, arrogant but helpful, dense but intelligent. Meeting Thorin had been worth the trouble he’d already gone through and possibly even the ones he _would_ go through.

 

Still. “If someone asks, what will you say?”

 

“What about?”

 

“If, if they ask who I am.” What was he to Thorin, really?

 

“Surely you know the answer to that.” Thorin laughed, sobering when Bilbo did not smile and quickly said, “I will tell them that you are my friend of course.” He paused for a moment, looking as if he was considering his next words carefully. “I know it has only been two nights, but I feel as if I know you, Bobil.”

 

That was entirely untrue and not any fault of Thorin’s. Bilbo swallowed, trying to force away the guilt attempting to choke him. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

 

Thorin regarded him, well, thoroughly was the only description he could come up with. Bilbo shifted under the scrutiny, wanting to rub his chest where an ache had started. Perhaps he shouldn’t have bolted down his dinner so quickly. “You needn’t say anything. But I’d prefer for you to accept it as a truth.”

 

Funnily enough, Bilbo could do so with little complaint. He said as much.

 

“Thank you,” Thorin said, as if Bilbo had given him a gift worth more than the Shire.

 

Bilbo felt that _he_ had been given a gift, seeing he was now properly friends with a Dwarf (as his relationship with Millie from Mannarill was mostly professional). His relationship with Thorin, for all that it had developed in a shorter time, brought about affection and made him look forward to spending time together.

 

This he did not voice.

 

Smiling, Thorin – to Bilbo’s relief – changed the subject, announcing: “We shall go see the swordfights.” He pointed (in what was hopefully the right direction). “There is someone I would like you to see…”

 

Sharp alarm stopped Bilbo’s thoughts.

 

“I’m sure she has reached the final round. We will certainly watch other bouts as you wish, but first I think you should start with hers.”

 

“You mean you just want me to watch?” Relief suffused through him (again) when Thorin nodded. “Who’s this Dwarf, then? She must be special to you.” Bilbo hadn’t even thought that Thorin had a – wife? Lover? Betrothed? Truth be told he hadn’t thought about Thorin’s personal life at all, though he’d freely speculated about what he did for a living and what standing he had in society. Perhaps he’d subconsciously thought it fair, since he didn’t offer any of his own personal information.

 

This new development was strange in a way that Bilbo couldn’t put his finger on, but he surely didn’t mind going to watch this Dwarf fight, so long as Thorin made sure to keep to his word and not make him speak with her.

 

“Yes, she’s –” Thorin’s sigh was almost unnoticeable (almost because Bilbo was close enough to hear it). The shift in his expression _was_ noticeable, changing from open and good-humoured to blank and polite. He must not have liked this person – a Dwarf with a grey beard long enough to tuck into his belt – because though his responses were patient, their conversation was short.

 

He obediently fell into step when Thorin gestured that they move on, absently wondering if Thorin would end up with back pain tomorrow after all the straightening and hunching he was doing. He stretched up a little higher so Thorin wouldn’t have to lean down as much. “You were saying?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You were going to tell me about your –”

 

“Oh, yes, Dís.” That was a nice name. “I do not think you’ve known anyone as skilled as her.”

 

“I’m sure I haven’t,” he agreed mildly, seeing as he didn’t know _anyone_ skilled at swinging a sword around. He noted the crowd around the ring they were walking towards; Thorin’s praises must have been true.

 

Their progress was halted again.

 

Bilbo watched bemusedly as yet another Dwarf approached Thorin and greeted him. He recognised enough words to know these were rather formal greetings, so perhaps Thorin _was_ someone important. It would be rude to bring it up, and he instead commented lightly, “You seem to know many Dwarves.”

 

“Or many Dwarves know me.” Thorin looked unsure of his own reply.

 

“Sure,” he agreed, and did not add on a question about why Thorin had made that clarification. Did it mean that he had more acquaintances than friends? Was that why Thorin was spending time with him?

 

“Ah, they have already started. Come, you’ll be able to see better if we seat ourselves further in front.”

 

It was a little strange that there was a space made for them without any polite coughing or pointed asking, but Bilbo didn’t bother pursuing that line of thought just as he didn’t bother to address the slight about his height.

 

“You see the Dwarf with the shortswords? She is Dís, my sister.”

 

There were three Dwarves in the ring, only one – Thorin’s _sister_ , as it turned out – with two swords (apparently short ones). Another had a single sword that was two thirds his height; the third’s blade was curved like a scythe’s. These weapons were obviously sharp but their armour was minimal – only their upper bodies covered, and no helmets.

 

It enabled Bilbo to see that Dís had brown eyes and a serious expression. Her beard was neatly fixed with clasps made of the same metal as the angular pieces in her armour that were arranged like scales. The tunic she wore beneath was drab grey but there was a flash of brightness in the high collar of her mustard yellow undershirt. Bilbo approved of these colours (they even went with the dark purple gems set into the handles of her swords).

 

But most striking was her hair, braided away from her face and kept in place with metal threads, the ends free to cascade down her back in luxuriant curls. Somehow she could whirl around, step, and feint without obscuring her vision. Was that a requirement when Dwarves learned combat?

 

He could also see that she looked more imposing than Thorin, even if she wasn’t facing down two opponents with weapons in hand. Their resemblance was in the straight of her nose and the heaviness of her brow. She had no silver in her hair, though, and all along her ears were glittering studs in the colours of a rainbow.

 

Bilbo started when the Dwarf with the curved sword gave a fierce cry and launched forwards, first attacking Dís and then their other opponent. He tried not to flinch at every clash of their blades.

 

“You see how she disarmed him?” Thorin asked; he’d bent close to Bilbo’s ear to speak over the cheers and jeers. “She taught me that.” The clear pride in Thorin’s deep voice made Bilbo smile.

 

The Dwarf Dís had disarmed backed away, moving to sit at the edge of the fighting ring with a disappointed expression. Someone offered him a flask and he drank from it, spilling what looked like ale down the front of his jerkin. Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

 

“Why doesn’t he pick up his sword and keep at it?”

 

“The skill here is to fight without drawing blood. It is considered a penalty to cause injury to your opponent – minor scrapes and bruises aside. The tournaments are a good opportunity to carry out and learn new techniques, so that you may better your ability and that of others.”

 

Not really knowing what to say to this, Bilbo turned back to the two remaining fighters.

 

The only real experience Bilbo had with swords – besides seeing them in the marketplace – was from tales told to him or read in books, and even those tales were short. Swordfighting was always a small part in the main story and described sparingly. Bilbo had always assumed that this was so the reader could fill in the blanks with their own imagination. Now he saw that there was another reason.

 

Everything happened so _quickly_. Bilbo barely had enough time to catch some movements; if he’d had to write about them, the narrative would have lasted longer than the match itself. Not to mention that the narrative itself would be difficult to write, given how he didn’t know the names of the techniques used and given how often the same techniques were applied.

 

Of the two Thorin’s sister was the faster, possibly because she had to compensate for the shorter reach of her weapons, possibly because she constantly needed to avoid her opponent’s attacks. It was a wonder that neither of them was out of breath – despite Bilbo’s walking holidays he was nowhere near as fit – though they did take a small ‘break’ as they stood back and considered each other.

 

Thorin made a low sound when Dís threw herself to the ground and rolled away, her opponent’s sword coming down where she’d been only seconds before. Bilbo dug his nails into his knees.

 

“Are you sure they’re not trying to kill each other?”

 

“They will not get so carried away.”

 

Bilbo watched Dís kick the back of her opponent’s knee and then watched him elbow her in the ribs. “Are you _sure_?” he repeated.

 

“Bobil.” Thorin waited until he had Bilbo’s full attention. “You know as well as I do that nothing of the sort will happen. Yes, this fourth day is when weapons are involved, but it is the only day. We have other skills to showcase, other aspects of our culture.”

 

“That’s… I’m not claiming that either of them is bloodthirsty. I know it is said of Dwarves,” – especially by disapproving Hobbits – “but I know they, I know we’re not.” He flexed his wrists. There was many an occasion when a friend or relative decided to ‘point out’ a Dwarf’s failings, but if they were as violent as all that, the Shirefolk would be slaves rather than trade partners.

 

“If only it was so easy to make others understand this.”

 

“But it is easy.” Bilbo laughed a little. “Anyone needs only meet you and they will know all the greatness capable of Dwarves.”

 

Thorin’s pale eyes were awfully blue when he was shocked. This wasn’t a relevant or useful observation at all, but Bilbo couldn’t help but make it. Just as he couldn’t help but notice that the purple overtunic Thorin wore made his eyes even more striking.

 

Finally Thorin inclined his head and did not break their gazes. “You pay me a great compliment.”

 

“No compliment. Only truth,” Bilbo said simply.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Again Bilbo noted there was so much weight behind those two words; the sentiment behind them was clearly more than simple gratitude. He found himself looking up at Thorin – not _staring_ thank you – wondering at this amazing Dwarf who did not know the extent of his own kindness.

 

A Dwarf who, after a moment, quirked his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the ring, towards the fight that they were supposed to be watching.

 

Ears hot, Bilbo turned away.

 

It turned out to be a good thing that Thorin ended the conversation when he did, because it wasn’t long before Dís _threw_ one of her swords at her opponent. He managed to dodge it, instinctively using his sword to deflect it, and in this distraction Dís leaped forward and put the point of her second blade over his chest.

 

The crowd erupted.

 

Dís turned, dark eyes scanning the surrounds and finally landing on Thorin. She grinned and raised her remaining sword towards him triumphantly as the gathered Dwarves roared. There was sweat beading on her brow, calling to attention a scar that curved down from her temple almost to the corner of her eye.

 

Thorin raised a fist in return; he was also grinning as if he’d won. Well, it was a reasonable reaction. His sister had just won and he was proud of her.

 

The crowd had started up a chant and Bilbo couldn’t help but ask, “What do they say about her?”

 

“Oh, they…” Thorin looked surprised at the question, even a little nervous. Was it because the chant was something rude? “It is a, a not-quite name. A term given to her.”

 

Bilbo waited.

 

“They call her Princess.”

 

That was very nice of them. “She must be well-liked.”

 

Was it relief that skittered across Thorin’s face? Probably not. “Aye, she is well-liked. More so than me, less than our brother.”

 

So Thorin had been speaking the truth earlier; many Dwarves knew him because of his sister. They must have been voicing their well wishes to him to pass on to his sister. “Aren’t you going to congratulate her?” Bilbo asked. He and Thorin were still seated, waiting for the Dwarves on either side of them to move first. “I could stay here and wait for you.”

 

“I will see her afterwards.” His tone was amused. “We do not live in different mountains.”

 

Bilbo put his nose in the air. “Who knows? She might need to escape your presence.”

 

“She may. More likely I am the one who needs to escape.”

 

“Yes, escape from her superior swordplay.”

 

Thorin snorted but did not rise to the bait.

 

In the lull, he looked back at the ring. The three competitors were having a conversation (absent of any obvious upset) but then Bilbo saw Dís’ gaze flicker towards him, just for a fraction of a second. But she turned away, dismissing his presence. She’d probably looked at Thorin instead of him.

 

“Do you fight?” Thorin asked, drawing Bilbo’s attention. When all he received was blank silence, he gestured towards the rings. “Like them.”

 

“Well I’m very obviously not there facing any Dwa – any other Dwarf.”

 

“That isn’t what I meant,” he said, amused instead of annoyed. “Axe or sword?”

 

Um. “Neither?” he tried.

 

“Archery, then? Or maybe a crossbow?”

 

“No…”

 

Thorin’s expression grew more and more perplexed as he continued listing weapons: hatchets, mattocks, slingshots, poleaxes, war hammers, maces, spears, flails. Bilbo hadn’t even heard of most of them, and could only continue shaking his head in the negative.

 

“Well, I have some skill at conkers,” he finally offered. “If you must know.”

 

“Conkers? I have never heard of such warfare.”

 

Bilbo fought the impulse to squirm, glancing down at his boots. “It’s… not well known, and not very impressive, if I’m honest.”

 

“It isn’t necessary for Dwarves to take up weapons,” Thorin said quickly. Had he thought his question tactless? “Not all of us do.”

 

“Just most of y – most of us.”

 

“…yes.”

 

Bilbo shifted uneasily. “How about you? Do you…” he almost said ‘fight?’, but the answer to that was obvious. “Do you use two weapons at once? Like your sister?”

 

“I can,” Thorin said. “I prefer to use one or the other – last year I took part in the axe tournament.”

 

“But not this year?”

 

“No.” The Dwarf looked down at him with a small smile. “I’m glad I didn’t, else I’d not be here with you.”

 

Bilbo did not call Thorin sweet despite the overwhelming urge otherwise. Because Thorin _was_ sweet, and his smile made his eyes bright. Instead he said, “I am glad too.”

 

Thorin’s smile grew and he rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo tried not to shy away, unused to the casual touch of others.

 

“Though I would also have been glad to watch you fight. I’m sure you are very skilled.” He did not really think that being spectator to any sort of weapon play could be enjoyable, but he would willingly make an exception for Thorin. It was only right to support his friend.

 

A squeeze to his shoulder brought him back to that friend. “Perhaps next year,” Thorin said. “I’d like for you to be there.”

 

Bilbo nodded, mouth firmly shut to stop any admission that this was his first and last time at the Durin’s Week tournaments. He did not want to disappoint Thorin – and while his absence next year would be a disappointment (probably), he wouldn’t be here to face it.

 

“We should watch another match. Is there any in particular you would wish we start with?”

 

Bilbo neither had a preference nor any desire to continue watching Dwarves bash at each other. But he followed Thorin’s lead and stood. “Do you have other siblings taking part?” In fact, did Thorin have other siblings? He’d remembered belatedly that Dwarves were not as… productive as Hobbits.

 

“My brother is an archer, but like me he is not competing this year.” Thorin huffed a laugh, glancing up at something. “His name is Frerin.”

 

He followed Thorin’s gaze; there was a balcony without a railing – a dais, perhaps – overlooking the fighting rings. The Dwarves stood or sat there looked like blobs from this distance. Bilbo’s eyes went straight to a yellow one in the front and centre. “Is that Frerin?” he asked.

 

“That is the Prince.” Thorin had an odd expression, like he’d taken a too-large sip of lemon juice. “Most Dwarves know of the royal family.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t a Dwarf though. Not that he could admit as much. Oh dear, oh dear…

 

“No, Bobil, I – I did not –” Thorin lifted his hand from Bilbo’s shoulder, returning it to his side. His fingers drew into a fist. “I meant that as an observation.”

 

Bilbo smiled faintly. “Thank you. I think.”

 

“I intended no insult.”

 

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t – no offense was taken.” He reached out and patted Thorin’s arm, perversely pleased when this managed to dispel the tightness at the corners of Thorin’s mouth. “Not to worry.”

 

Thorin inclined his head. Then he took up a bemused smile, looking to his side… where Bilbo – to his mortified horror – was still patting his arm.

 

He snatched back his hand. “Why – why is he there?”

 

“The Prince? He is overseeing the tournaments. At the end of this night he will present the gifts to the victors. It is an… official responsibility.”

 

“Well why doesn’t the King do it?”

 

“Did you think that overseeing tournaments is the only job a King can have?” The same pinched expression had returned. Was it that Thorin personally knew Erebor’s rulers? He wouldn’t sound so offended otherwise.

 

“I do not claim to know much about the affairs of royalty.” Much less Dwarven royalty. Bilbo pushed some hair behind his ear. “If _you_ were King, what would you do?”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He saw Thorin swallow. “In general, or referring specifically to these tournaments?”

 

“Hmm… the second.”

 

Thorin took a moment to answer. “I would fulfil that duty, but I would give ample opportunity for my brother and sister to experience for their own.”

 

“And would they be happy with that?” Bilbo laughed.

 

“Few are happy when saddled with work.” Thorin broke off to nod to two Dwarves who’d stopped by to greet him. He waited until they turned away before lowering his voice, returning to their conversation. “And I must be careful when divvying up work among my siblings.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“They are very spiteful.” He shook his head. “Most all my reflexes have been sharpened thanks to their antics – a century later and their ways are unchanged.” Despite these sentiments, the undercurrent of fondness showed that Thorin was not as aggravated as his word choice would have indicated.

 

Bilbo smiled. “Tell me more about them.”

 

“Why don’t we walk to our lesson place? We can speak on the way there.”

 

“I thought you wanted to stay here.” It was noisy and crowded, yes, but Bilbo did not want to force Thorin to do what he did not wish.

 

“I have watched my sister’s bout, and that is the most important to me.” He half turned towards the great doors they’d entered through earlier. “And we will not be interrupted as we have been here.”

 

He had to concede that point. Happy, Bilbo attempted to rock back on his heels; thanks to his nice-looking but uncomfortable-constraining boots, all he managed was an odd twitch. He was surprised he hadn’t fallen over. He covered it with a smile. “I’ll lead the way, shall I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I wonder how oblivious these two can get. Though, as I was discussing with alkjira (who is ever lovely and read through this for me), it's only been two days of proper interaction.  
> And three more days left! =O
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and hope those who celebrated the Lunar New Year had a good one.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~it's my year I am a goat~~


	10. 5.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: Games.
> 
> Thorin lunches with his family, makes fun of Dwalin, and then stumbles on a terrible truth involving Bobil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Food mentions, injury mentions.

When Thorin sat down for lunch with his siblings, he hadn’t thought anything of it. He was more concerned with the hunger that had settled in his belly, and was quite happy to reach for the cucumber-studded yoghurt to eat with his spiced lamb. Fíli and Kíli were still with their father in the training grounds, so it was quieter that one would expect – but when neither of his siblings made a sound, he looked up.

 

Frerin and Dís looked back at him with suspiciously creamy smiles on their faces. He almost sighed; they never looked so much like each other as when they were poised to make his life difficult. Thorin made sure to take a large gulp of ale before expectantly raising his eyebrows.

 

“We’ve noticed that you’ve made a new friend, brother.”

 

At this Thorin’s eyes narrowed.

 

“At least, we think they’re a friend. I don’t think you’ve introduced them to any of us.” 

 

 _For good reason_ , Thorin thought. “I should be free to talk to whomever I like. Surely that’s not too much to expect?”

 

“No one is disputing that, Thorin.” Frerin picked up his own cup, mockingly lifting it in a salute. “Why don’t you tell us about this interesting Dwarf – they must have many stories to tell, if they’ve kept your attention for so long.”

 

In fact, Bobil was very careful with the stories that shared with Thorin – he remembered the night they’d first spoken to each other and how reluctant Bobil was to even be in his presence. Now he did respond to questions that did not dig into his personal business and – hopefully – now enjoyed Thorin’s presence as much as Thorin did Bobil’s.  “He has asked to keep his private matters private, and I wish to hold to my word.”

 

Dís snorted. “Thorin, you are only good at keeping promises by virtue of your forgetting the information almost immediately.”

 

“That isn’t true,” he retorted, annoyed. “And I haven’t forgotten all that he has told me.” To be truthful he hoarded the tales Bobil told like the greatest of treasures, selfishly glad that he was the only one privileged to keep Bobil’s confidence.

 

“Fine, fine,” Frerin drawled. “You don’t _have_ to tell us about him.”

 

Thorin would have been relieved by this statement, but he knew his siblings too well for that. He speared a piece of melon with his fork and waited.

 

“But perhaps you could care to explain how you feel about him. He is obviously someone special.”

 

“Frerin is right.” Dís fiddled with the ruby-studded hoops in her ear, which she preferred to wear when she was not fighting. “I don’t think you’ve ever smiled so sweetly over someone you’ve newly met.”

 

“Ha-ha,” Thorin said, aiming to be as deadpan as possible. (And he cursed; he’d not been aware of smiling at all.) “You are truly the paragon of wit, the both of you. I count myself lucky to have been graced with your presence, and do not at all wish that I’d been an only child.”

 

“No need to throw a tantrum. Is it so unusual that we be interested in your welfare?”

 

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but you are more fond of teasing me endlessly.”

 

“We only tease because we care.”

 

“And because we want to know.” Frerin wore a mischievous expression that matched Dís’, blue and brown eyes sparkling and wrinkled at the corners.

 

Insufferable brats. Damned that he loved them.

 

“I think you’d best remember that you cannot know everything.” He raised his knife before either spoke. “This is something you _could_ know, but I’m choosing not to enlighten you. Not yet.”

 

“Not _yet_?”

 

Thorin dipped his chin.

 

“Thorin.” He heard Frerin sigh. “You have a habit of keeping your problems to yourself. We wish you wouldn’t.”

 

“There are many duties that you needn’t be concerned with.” He pushed some levity into his voice and hoped it didn’t sound forced. “I thought you two would be glad to have fewer responsibilities. You certainly enjoy complaining otherwise.”

 

He was deliberately misunderstanding; he knew they were both aware of it but continued eating in the hope that neither would bring it up. It was a feeble hope.

 

“We would take on those responsibilities if asked to. But we are speaking of problems, Thorin, not duties.” Dís traced the rim of her cup; teasing had given way to a troubled expression. “They are not mutually exclusive but you don’t hide your duties. You do not forbid others from helping with your duties.”

 

Again he tried to ‘misunderstand’. “I do not forbid –”

 

“Don’t,” Frerin snapped. “You are not a stupid Dwarf, stop acting like one.”

 

“I do not wish to speak of this over lunch.”

 

“You do not wish to speak of this at all.”

 

Thorin ignored this shrewd observation. “There are no problems. Be reassured.” When neither sibling responded with anything other than disapproving silence, he sighed. “If nothing else, wait for Durin’s Week to end. I only ask for that.”

 

Frerin and Dís exchanged glances then finally nodded. “We accept these terms,” said Dís, directing a small smile towards him.

 

Thorin’s relief was not only that they both agreed to set the issue aside (even if it was just for now), but also the audible approach of Víli, Fíli, and Kíli.

 

“Hello, all!” Kíli bowed elaborately, only grinning when his brother jostled him. “Is everyone well?”

 

“I see you beat Fíli,” was Dís’ dry comment. “How many times?”

 

Her eldest protested. “Only once! I beat him as well, you know.”

 

That didn’t warrant the smugness of Kíli’s strut. “But…?” Thorin prompted.

 

“‘ _Adad_ lost to me three times.” Kíli finally sat, leaning across the table to reach for the lamb. “Three!”

 

“You needn’t boast so loudly, nephew. There’s such a thing as luck.” Frerin winked at Víli. “And there’s such a thing as letting someone win.”

 

“I’m not 40 years old,” Kíli complained.

 

“It wasn’t very long ago that you were,” Thorin commented, and chuckled when Kíli turned his wounded expression on him. All joking aside, it was still surprising to Thorin that his nephews were almost of age. They were his heirs, and he remembered how small they’d been as babes when Dís allowed him to carry them. He felt… odd. Old.

 

“Anyhow, I won by my own skill,” Kíli said, bringing Thorin back into the now. “Not out of pity.”

 

“The last match was good. Even if ‘ _Adad_ threw the first two, Kíli definitely won the other.” Fíli laughed and ducked when Kíli threw a plum at him. “I’m defending you, you pebble!”

 

“Behave, my lads.” Dís’ warning was quiet – even mild – and while Fíli and Kíli did not fully subside, their food-wielding hands relaxed from throwing grips.

 

Thorin suspected that they would’ve tried their luck regardless, only it was the afternoon. Being the cause of any spills would be frowned upon – everyone had duties to see to and a change of clothes would be inconvenient and irritating. Theirs was not a family that tolerated irritation well. (That had even rubbed off on Víli.)

 

Still, it was a family that he was happy to be part of. Durin’s Week was especially enjoyable since it allowed them all to dine together between the celebrations with little interruption from duties or other Dwarves. Often Thorin could not return to their shared dining room, instead bolting down his food before another audience or meeting or whatever obligation he had to see to.

 

Now he had the time to watch Dís laugh at a joke Fíli made, to watch Víli dole out lentils on Kíli’s plate and – when Frerin crowed at him – liberally onto Frerin’s. He listened to the blow-by-blow account of the training session earlier, listened to the excitement in his nephews’ voices and the affection in their parents’. He noted how, after excited urging from Kíli, Fíli put a whole chilli in his mouth and swallowed it with only minimal difficulty, raising a cheer from everyone.

 

They were ridiculous and he was fortunate to be with them.

 

But Bobil… Bobil made no mention of his own family or even if he had family. Was it unfair of Thorin to share stories of his family when Bobil could not do the same? Was he throwing his happy memories in Bobil’s face?

 

Of course Thorin knew that no Dwarf needed a blood-family to be happy and that an acquired family could be just as rewarding; he himself had the best of both worlds. Going on what he knew so far, though, he could not say the same for Bobil.

 

Was it presumptuous of Thorin to think himself Bobil’s first friend? Yes. Was it possible that he was right? According to what he knew… yes.

 

No Dwarf would have kept Khuzdul from another Dwarf. Everyone, barring those who were not able to learn, knew their language or the Iglishmêk equivalent, whether hermits or Princes or miners or pariahs. Everyone except Bobil, it seemed. Just what were the circumstances of his past?

 

Thorin shook his head. It was so easy to fall back on thoughts about his new friend, but now was time for lunch with those he held dear; those, now that he had the opportunity, he had to speak with.

 

“It’s good that you’re all here,” he said, taking a break from eating – much needed anyway, considering the burn of spice in his mouth that could not be soothed even with yoghurt. He left his knife and fork on the plate but snagged a piece of flatbread before it finished. “I want to discuss Dáin. I’m sure you’ve noticed his absence.”

 

Fíli and Kíli cheekily made a production of looking around, scanning even the ceiling and under the table.

 

“You’re right, _irak'adad_!”

 

“We’d never have noticed otherwise!”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes.

 

“He’s having lunch with his sweetheart, isn’t he?” Frerin asked, saving them all from the ridiculousness of Dwarflings.

 

“And this conversation involves her as well. They will, I think, eventually marry.”

 

His brother looked unimpressed. “When that happens – if that happens – how will it involve us?” he asked, speaking around a mouthful of lentils.

 

“I thought we could have one handjoining ceremony here and another in the Iron Hills.”

 

“Isn’t that extravagant?” Dís rolled her eyes and spoke before Thorin could answer, “What am I saying? That is exactly your preference.”

 

He frowned at her. “It needn’t be full of mithril and pearls. I have asked Glóin to come up with projections and we shall work from there.” Even Thorin could admit that his cousin had more self-control than he did when it came to planning ceremonies and the like. “It’s not as if we will have any other weddings anytime soon, unless either of these two –” he gestured to his nephews with his cup “– have something to tell us.”

 

Fíli and Kíli didn’t even bother looking up, carrying their own conversation in mutters.

 

“That still does not explain why you’re bringing it up,” Dís prompted.

 

“I thought we could attend both,” was Thorin’s answer, watching for their reactions. “It has been some decades since we last visited the Iron Hills.”

 

“If by ‘we’ you mean you and Dís and me, who will rule in our absence?”

 

Instead of answering Thorin looked at Fíli and Kíli. He briefly reconsidered his decision when the both of them looked back with alarmed expressions (that were dimmed only by their bulging cheeks).

 

“Both of them at once?” Dís asked, also abandoning her lunch as she sat back in her seat. She sounded thoughtful.

 

“I’m accompanying Dís,” Víli said quickly.

 

Thorin was impressed with his straight face and tried to emulate it as he nodded. “That is only right. I would not part my sister from her One.”

 

“But you’d part her from her children?” Kíli’s brown eyes were wide and pleading. “You’re not supposed to be cruel!”

 

“Look at it this way, lads,” Víli said, smiling when Dís took his hand. “You might be blessed with a new sibling.”

 

“‘ _Adad_!” Fíli and Kíli exclaimed in tandem. They even had the same amount of dismay in their voices.

 

“Are we leaving the Council to help as well?” Frerin sounded like the idea was distasteful, and Thorin had to agree.

 

“That would be unwise.” Ugh, they’d come back to angry Ereboreans in an unbearable state of affairs and it would take months to undo all that damage. “Perhaps Balin – otherwise he can suggest alternatives to serve as regent.”

 

“Why must this happen?” Fíli asked. He looked a little ill and not because of the amount of food he’d already eaten.

 

“So you two may learn. There are only so many lessons you can be given and they will not teach you as well as experiencing these things for yourself.” He smirked. “This of course means that you will have to accompany me more often, and not just for sitting in on audiences.”

 

“It’s not strictly necessary for _me_ , is it?” Kíli carefully asked, tracing nonsense patterns on the marble table. Fíli hit him. “Ow! I’m just saying, he’s the heir.”

 

“You’re _both_ my heirs. The world does not cater to your whims. It does not follow pre-set diagrams. You cannot predict what will happen.”

 

“The mountain could collapse, that’s what might happen.” Frerin snickered.

 

“We are too young,” Kíli protested. “You don’t want us making big decisions.”

 

“Just minutes ago you protested at being called a child.”

 

Kíli stared at his mother for a moment. “It’s not the same thing.”

 

Thorin sighed. “I cannot guarantee that your inexperience will suddenly disappear by the time we return – but it will have decreased. Our kingdom is prosperous, but that can change in an instant.” He cast about for a ridiculous example. “If a dragon came to claim our gold and gems, and if it succeeded, those who survive would be displaced from their homes.”

 

“Meanwhile any one of us could be slain in battle,” said Frerin. “Who will lead our people, if we cannot?”

 

“We will not be by your side forever.” Dís said. “You know this.”

 

Fíli and Kíli did not reply, eyes on their plates as they abandoned eating. There was a long silence.

 

“Come now,” Víli said, voice light, “Let us not call out grief from suppositions of the future.” He speared a piece of meat. “I think you may have gotten your point across, despite their thick heads.”

 

Frerin snorted. “A cause for celebration.”

 

“We’re not that dense,” Fíli said. He was not unhappy, precisely, but he wasn’t returned to his cheerful self either.

 

“No you are not,” Dís said fondly. “But you have been raised in a time of peace and plenty, and that makes Dwarves lazy and complacent.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Prove us wrong.”

 

“Yes, ‘ _Amad_.”

 

“We promise, ‘ _Amad_.”

 

Thorin tore off a piece of flatbread to mop up the remains of his meal. The conversation lulled into safer topics like tonight’s games. Frerin would be taking part this day, in a game that combined shin kicking and copious drinking – the catch here was the ale that would be used was supplied by the Hobbits. The lads’ diminished demeanours rekindled but hopefully they would think on what they had been told – if they remembered what they’d been told, as Víli had said.

 

Well, it might take some years for Dáin’ and Cira’s handjoining to take place. Perhaps in that time they would be more ready.

 

* * *

 

Thorin didn’t stop a grin when he saw Dwalin sat on a cot in one of the medical wings.

 

He’d heard only today about his cousin’s misfortunes from last night, but worry had quickly been replaced with amusement when the mechanism and type of injury had been explained to him. Thorin suspected that the biggest blow was made to his pride; not only had he lost to young Gimli, he’d been too injured to enter the final round of the hand-to-hand tournament despite beating his opponent.

 

If Dwalin still had lingering annoyance, then – wait, no, his annoyance was _very_ clear. Especially when he saw Thorin.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“I wasn’t able to watch you fight yesterday. Now I feel cheated.”

 

“That’s your own fault.”

 

“And are these injuries _your_ fault?”

 

“Punching him and throwing him over my shoulder was deliberate, aye.”

 

Thorin hummed. “I’ve got a feeling that there was an ulterior motive beneath that.”

 

“What?”

 

Óin bustled towards them, saving Thorin from answering and being Thorin’s answer at the same time.

 

He grinned at Dwalin, whose ears were now red as carnelians.

 

“Somehow I’m not surprised you’re here, laddie.”

 

“Does that have anything to do with Glóin telling you how Gimli won?” Thorin asked, not above rubbing Dwalin’s loss in his face. “Or perhaps the lad himself accounted the fight to you.”

 

“I watched my nephew’s bout.” Óin had Dwalin’s hand in both of his, watching for any flinches as he tested the movements of his fingers and wrist. “But this always happens with hand-to-hand fighting. Dwalin’s in here every other year, aren’t you lad?”

 

“You’d almost think he was doing it on purpose.”

 

“Oh shove a rock up your –”

 

“Don’t clench your fist,” Óin scolded. He produced a long strip of muslin, shooting a glare up at his King. “Thorin, stop arseing about.”

 

 _Fine_. He could control himself.

 

Óin worked quickly, securing the bandage with metal pins. He again tested Dwalin’s range of movement. “I don’t need to set your hand, but keep those on for a few days. Take them off before bathing, if you’re going to bother bathing, I’ll replace them when you come down here.”

 

“Why do I have to come back?” Dwalin frowned. “I know how to wrap my own wrist.”

 

“Your groin pull. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?” Óin glanced pointedly at Dwalin’s lap. “I’ll have to rub your thigh down thoroughly, else it’ll take an Age to heal.”

 

Thorin snickered. (That counted as controlling himself, he wasn’t making any jokes, especially about the return of Dwalin’s blush.)

 

“Of course we can always get our lord King to do it.”

 

“Sure. You’re going to trust that I’ll not make it worse.”

 

Óin laughed. “You’re right there.” A sliver of a smile remained when he looked up at Dwalin. “Get your breeches off. And watch closely, so you can do it when you can move your fingers properly.”

 

Thorin nudged Dwalin. “You’ll need to observe carefully, really pay attention to what Óin’s doing. You know how you’re so often wrapped up in your fantasies.”

 

The glare levelled at him was probably impressive but a pat to his knee had Dwalin’s focus returned to Óin. Thorin shook his head and wandered to study the various bottles and jars set into the wall, waiting to accompany Dwalin to his rooms after Óin was done poking and prodding. (He snickered again, quietly.)

 

It was because he knew Dwalin so well that he could tease him about his attraction to Óin. (And it was because Dwalin knew him so well that Thorin was forbidden from helping with that attraction.)

 

He had frequent urges to just _tell_ Óin what was going on but that would’ve been unfair to both him and Dwalin. Not to mention that Thorin might well end up in the healing wing himself.

 

But really. Pining was doing Dwalin no good. He ought to just reveal his feelings to Óin, damned the consequences.

 

Thorin perused the shelving system as he waited, observing how labelled bottles and jars were set into little alcoves carved into the stone walls, each filled with salves and liniments and herbs and tonics. Some of these were traded from the Hobbits, who were unashamed of sharing their knowledge and their simple cures (then modified to suit Dwarvish constitution). Dwarves in turned shared some of theirs, particularly related to healing burns.

 

With a small sigh, he relented to his promise not to interfere. He’d just have to leave Dwalin and Óin be. Whether anything came out of their current friendship, that was their business.

 

He’d still mock Dwalin, though. That was his prerogative as cousin. Thorin had known Dwalin for over a century now, with only three decades between them, and Dwalin was as much of a blood brother as a brother in arms. Teasing one another came easily after they’d grown extremely comfortable with each other –

 

And how was it that he’d achieved much the same with Bobil so quickly?

 

Now that he thought about it – not noticing that was _again_ thinking about the other Dwarf –, he knew so little and yet so much about Bobil. Bobil answered many of Thorin’s questions freely, so long as they didn’t touch on forbidden topics, and of course Thorin did the same. Conversation flowed easily and Thorin was more than happy to spend his nights with him, even if they did nothing but sit together in silence.

 

He felt like Bobil was already a good friend and he could only hope that Bobil felt the same about him.

 

 

Thorin blinked.

 

Very carefully, he returned the jar he was holding to its proper place. His palms were suddenly sweaty and his hands had a fine tremor, and it was best not to break anything. Óin was never pleased when medicinal mixtures were wasted. Thorin had endured many a lecture on delicate ratios and hours spent extracting and steeping and distilling; he did not want another one.

 

Happily, Óin was done and had already helped Dwalin dress.

 

“Be useful,” the healer said, brandishing a new roll of bandages, “take this – and Dwalin – up to his rooms. And don’t let him participate in the games, for Mahal’s sake, else I’ll have your hide.”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes, then yelped when Óin jabbed a finger into his side.

 

“Don’t lump around in my ward. Get going.”

 

Dwalin only needed his support towards the end of their walk – being stubborn as he was – and did not comment on Thorin’s silence. They each had distractions. He still managed to earn another glare when, after settling Dwalin in his bed, he placed a jar of safflower oil within reach accompanied by a suggestion that he spend his ample free time with polishing his weapon. Dwalin’s parting words were not kind.

 

Thorin returned to his quarters and slowly got himself ready for the night’s festivities. After failing to lace his breeches for the third time he sighed and flopped back onto the bed. He had some time yet, so consented to devote all of his attention on his newest realisation.

 

He no longer desired friendship from Bobil. Thorin desired _desire_ – he desired _Bobil_ , to keep by his side, to hold close to him, to have in all ways.

 

How had he not known this before now? How had he not noticed the singing in his soul at the mere sight of Bobil, not seen that all his wonderings were pulled back to one person, not been aware every moment he spent with him left him yearning for more? How had he missed all that?

 

How had he lived without Bobil?

 

Bobil was his One. Thorin revelled in this truth. A laugh bubbled out of his chest and he found no reason to suppress it. It was a joyous realisation. He knew that finding his One was not a cure for all his problems, but now he felt that he could leap the Misty Mountains in a single bound and reach the heart of Middle Earth armed only with a small spade. He felt that he could do anything.

 

But… was it all for naught?

 

Thorin stared upwards and saw nothing but Bobil’s face. He did not know if his feelings were reciprocated and did not know how to broach the subject tonight – or even if he should. If all Bobil had in his heart was friendship, would Thorin’s confession spoil that? Would his love drive Bobil away?

 

He did not want that at all. To live without Bobil’s bright eyes and delightful nose and warm smiles, without his dry wit, without the careful and deliberate touches he bestowed onto Thorin – no, he wanted to keep those in his life. He wanted to keep Bobil in his life even if that meant being no more than a friend.

 

Wouldn’t that make him as bad as Dwalin, though? Thorin wrinkled his forehead. He would be dismissing his own advice on such matters. Wasn’t the possibility of love worth the possibility of ruining what they already had?

 

He didn’t know the answer to these questions. They were too difficult to consider in the few hours he had left before again meeting up with Bobil so maybe… maybe he ought to keep his realisation to himself. Just for now. Just until he could properly ruminate on his feelings and contemplate all his options.

 

Though Thorin accepted this course of action, he could not help the bitterness at the back of his throat as he pulled on the rest of his clothes and readied himself. He had come across another realisation, a complication that could ruin everything, a further reason to delay any decision to confess to Bobil.

 

Because how would Bobil react – whether he harboured that same love or not – how would he react to Thorin’s duplicity regarding his identity?

 

* * *

 

 

Art! 

 

By the ever lovely tosquinha, posted with permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And why shouldn't Dwarves have Indian cuisine? ~~I already gave them some Hindu traditions in another fic.~~
> 
> I'm sure there was be a cry of "finally!" followed by a groan at Thorin's ridiculousness. Don't worry. I understand.
> 
> (also, if you were hoping for other pairings involving Dwalin... sorry? But I'd already planned this before I started posting.)
> 
> edit: ART! From the lovely tosquinha, whose art I adore. (For serious, her Thorin is my favourite.) [ **[LINK](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/116125971032/your-art-is-adorable)** ]


	11. 5.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: Games.
> 
> Bilbo washes clothes, lunches with friends, and exposes himself to Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None.

He did his laundry in the morning.

 

It wasn’t a chore that needed urgent seeing to, but the repetitive motions were relaxing. He sat scrubbing in the sun. Some bees buzzed past him as they perused the dahlias that bloomed all across the garden in whites and purples and reds. A breeze of wind unsettled his hair; with his hands wet, Bilbo tried to blow an especially stubborn curl off his forehead and failed. He huffed and bore the mild irritation for now.

 

Morning in the Shire was peaceful. In fact, the Shire was peaceful all the time, barring any family feuds or too nosy gossipers. It was a stark contrast to Erebor, especially last night’s tournaments. The clash of weapons had only been a shade quieter than the excitable spectators. Though some of that excitement had transferred into Bilbo as he watched Thorin’s sister fight, the highlight of the night had been returning to their lesson place and listening to Thorin’s anecdotes about his family.

 

He’d had to stop himself from chiming in with his own stories – he might have been an only child but he’d been part of a tussle of Hobbitlings and he had many stories of the love and ridiculousness of his parents, as well as the craziness of the rest of his family, Bagginses and Tooks both. But he was supposed to be a Dwarf, and a Dwarf did not have Hobbit relatives (that were not acquired by marriage).

 

Thorin had mistaken his silence for angst and was quick to reassure that he could change the subject if Bilbo so wished, but Bilbo had only smiled and bade him continue.

 

The stories Thorin told painted a picture of a lovely and loving family, if one prone to arguments and irrationality; very much like Bilbo’s except Dwarves were more violent in settling disputes and more forthright about giving voice to grievances. Thorin’s love for them was clear in his alternatively fond and exasperated smiles. It was absolutely darling to watch.

 

There had only been a little time devoted to their language lesson but it was better to learn more about Thorin than about a language he wasn’t supposed to know. It wasn’t as if he was going to be able to use Khuzdul in conversation – or even be able to have a conversation in Khuzdul – and even though he’d already written down all he’d been taught it’d be best to limit what he knew. He was not a Dwarf no matter how many transformations he’d gone through. He was not a Dwarf, if not finding and being with his dream Dwarf would’ve been easier, would’ve been possible.

 

Finally unable to stand it, Bilbo used his forearm to swipe the hair off his forehead, speckling his breeches with soapy water. At least having pushed his sleeves up above his elbows meant the blouse he wore wouldn’t get soaked.

 

He moved on to his darker clothes, humming a nonsense tune under his breath. His red jacket lay on the ground beside him and that would be washed last and with a new basinful of water. Hmm. Maybe he should’ve started his washing with that.

 

It was still a little strange that Gandalf spell would have him wearing that jacket this whole week. Well, not _exactly_ the same one, considering that it’d had to fit Dwarvish fashion as well as his broadened frame, but same enough. Bilbo wondered what Thorin had thought of it during their first meeting (excluding their collision). He wondered if Thorin liked it.

 

Not that it should’ve mattered. Why would it matter? Bilbo respected Thorin’s opinion (so long as he wasn’t being a complete clotpole) but an opinion on his clothes wasn’t needed. He wanted Thorin’s impression of him to be based on his intellect and character, not his appearance. He didn’t need Thorin to be attracted to him.

 

…right?

 

The purple weskit in his hand suffered a confused glare. Bilbo let it sink into the water and rested his hands on the edge of the basin.

 

Just where were these thoughts coming from? He’d been thinking about family and friends, not anyone else. It wasn’t as if he had feelings for Thorin. He wasn’t supposed to. Why would he want to ruin the first (Dwarf) friendship he’d ever had? And really, how much of these ‘feelings’ were confused with gratefulness? He could just be latching on to the kindness Thorin offered freely and mistaking that for love.

 

Not that this was love, no. It couldn’t be and it wasn’t. And it wasn’t any variety of romantic feelings either. Not at all. Obviously.

 

And there was the question of Bilbo’s dreams and the stranger within. Thorin may have been a Dwarf, fine, but he couldn’t be and absolutely wasn’t _that_ Dwarf. No, no. His Dwarf wouldn’t have landed on his lap (or been in his way while he was trying to escape and not paying attention). Searching for his love wasn’t supposed to be easy. Life didn’t work that way.

 

He frowned even more. Not for the first time Bilbo wondered if these dreams were real. Well they obviously weren’t _real_ , but there was no guarantee that they were premonitions or visions of someone that existed. And if this person _was_ real, there was no guarantee that they were supposed to be loved by Bilbo and there was also no guarantee that they were supposed to be a Dwarf, bristly kisses or no. And further, if this person _was_ a Dwarf, there was no guarantee that they’d be in Erebor instead of other dwellings.

 

If the dreams, this person, Bilbo’s feelings – if these were all real, that did not guarantee that he’d be loved in return.

 

“Are you hoping your clothes will wash themselves?”  


Bilbo blinked up into Briar Gamgee’s bright smile, brighter than the sunlight that shone on her curls and turned them golden at the edges. “I was distracted.”

 

“Same as my Hamfast when I put him to laundry.” Briar swept up her skirts and sat on the ground near him. “Or any chore at all, I swear he has his head in the clouds unless he’s with that gang of his. Absolutely hopeless.”

 

He laughed and didn’t mention that he’d been much the same in his youth. “Still a good lad though.” Bilbo lifted his hands from the water, rubbing his pruned fingers together absentmindedly. “What brings you here?”

 

She quirked one brow. “I didn’t think you were so distracted that you forgot we’re having lunch?”

 

“Aye but it is not yet lunchtime.” Bilbo blinked, then glanced up at the sky. “Is it?”

 

“Not yet.” Briar scratched the side of her neck. “I wanted to ask if we could eat in Bag End. I’m still making the food,” she hastened to add. “Only, the children somehow managed to collapse our table. Jessie from down the road said she’d have a look at it but she’ll not be able to fix it by today –”

 

“It’s no trouble at all, Briar. It’ll be nice to have you all there. I haven’t invited anyone home in awhile.”

 

“Well, that Mister Gandalf’s been stopping by often.”

 

“Oh. You noticed.” Bilbo worked on a particularly difficult stain and hoped that Briar had only noticed the Wizard and not the effects of his spell. “Yes, he’s decided to visit some friends in the Shire. He’s staying at the Green Dragon.”

 

She accepted this explanation with a nod. “He’s a peculiar fellow, but the children like his whiz poppers. All of us do, really, as much as m’ husband complains about the noise.”

 

Bilbo, on the other hand, could not view the fireworks in the same light considering how heavily they had and would feature this week. Instead he asked, “How is Hobson?” On the way back from Erebor Hobson had been involved in a cart accident and broke his wrist. Optimistic as always, he’d only lamented all the gardening he’d fall behind on.

 

“Completely insufferable,” Briar said tartly. “You’d think I have five children instead of four.”

 

Bilbo laughed again. Clearly Hobson expressed more complaints in the comfort of his home. “At least you can send your children outside if they get too tiresome.”

 

They chatted for a bit as Bilbo finished his washing and he waved off Briar’s offer to help him hang the clothes out to dry. She had her own tasks to see to; she laughed and told him it’d take longer to corral her children than to finish cooking.

 

After he clipped the last peg into place Bilbo hefted his wickerwork basket and left it by the side door for later. The pie he’d made in the morning sat undisturbed on the kitchen table. Bilbo stoked the oven, brushing some milk over the pie crust as he waited for it to get to temperature. He set the pie to baking and then he slipped into clothes that were not damp at the corners and sat by the kitchen window with a book.

 

If he kept forgetting his place, if he was distracted by thoughts of imagined and real Dwarves, if he was incredibly grateful for the knocking on his green door –

 

Such things were his own business.

 

* * *

“It’s not your business,” Thorin said.

 

“Tell me!”

 

“No.” The Dwarf scowled. It wasn’t convincing, not least because his furrowed brows were coupled with a pout.

 

Bilbo couldn’t help but think of Halfred – Hobson’ and Briar’s youngest. He’d worn a similar expression after being scolded for mashing tomatoes into his eldest brother’s hair. There hadn’t been any remorse present, but as the lad was only nine years old Bilbo supposed that was still excusable.

 

It had been nice to have the Gamgees in Bag End. His parents had always wanted more tiny feet in their home, pattering across the floorboards and tile. Bilbo preferred that it be this way, with other people’s children that could be returned at the end of the day. It wasn’t that he disliked Hobbitlings – they could be sweet if they wanted and more engaging than some adults – but he had never planned to have any of his own, certain of his bachelorhood. Even now the (almost impossible) prospect of being with someone did not bring forth any urge to be, er, ‘productive’.

 

But to get back to the topic at hand. Thorin had interrupted their previous conversation and was now being (more) awkward (than usual):

 

“I’ve already seen it,” Bilbo said patiently.

 

“You were not meant to.”

 

“I do not see what the problem is.”

 

“You were not meant to see it,” Thorin repeated. “There is a reason why we do not expose ourselves improperly.”

 

Expose –? _Improper_? “Normally I’d try to be polite and pretend that you are making sense, but I can’t, not when you’re being this ridiculous.” He raised his forefinger. “You _are_ being ridiculous and I’ll not hear a word otherwise.”

 

Thorin’s blue eyes flicked down, and then back up to his face. “You are covered.”

 

Bilbo’s ears grew hot just because of that quick glance. Clearly the insanity was catching. He shook his head and made to reach for cloth. “I’ll _un_ cover, if that will make you more comfortable…”

 

“No, Bobil, don’t –”

 

He looked up into a blush splashed across Thorin’s face. It was dark and splotchy and strangely charming. Bilbo stared, forgetting himself, standing with one sleeve pushed up his forearm.

 

Thorin was staring as well. He was absolutely intent on the inch of skin Bilbo had bared, the inside of his wrist that Bilbo had turned up for easy viewing. His lips parted by just a breath; he did not speak.

 

Instead of being further distracted by any prettiness – not to say that Thorin was pretty, by the by – Bilbo took the opportunity afforded to him. He reached for Thorin’s hand, turning it to fully uncover the drawing he had seen earlier, confirming what it was before the Dwarf snatched out of his grasp.

 

It _was_ a flower.

 

Thorin was busily repositioning the clasp on his sleeve; it had become loose and caused this whole situation in the first place. His blush was, if possible, even darker.

 

“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” Bilbo sighed. “But I still don’t understand what’s wrong with aster.”

 

“What is aster?” He still refused to meet Bilbo’s gaze, tracing the gold of the clasp.

 

“It’s the name of that blue flower you’ve set into your skin.” It was a lovely colour; Bilbo could only assume that the person who had done the tattooing had specifically chosen it to match Thorin’s eyes. “Didn’t you know?”

 

“No.”

 

He sighed again. “Thorin.”

 

“It is nothing special.”

 

“It clearly is,” Bilbo said pointedly, and when Thorin opened his mouth, added, “And not only because of where it is on your body.” Dwarves continued to hold queer notions, thinking that wrists were more intimate than other places. Were there more tattoos – more flowers – hidden about Thorin’s person?

 

Bilbo cleared his throat. He shouldn’t have thought that.

 

Much safer to look up at Thorin and note the way his braids were not quite even, as if he’d been thinking of something else when he’d been putting them into his hair. The Dwarf _had_ seemed distracted even from when they’d met up by the front gate – he still looked like he was. It would explain why he’d fumbled with his sleeve and called attention to his tattoo in the first place.

 

Finally Thorin stilled his fiddling fingers. “This _aster_ flower was tattooed on me some years back and it was… well, I wouldn’t call it a mistake, but…”

 

“But some alcohol helped you make the decision?”

 

“How did you guess?” Thorin chuckled. “Aye. My cousin Dwalin was with me at the time.”

 

“Did he acquire similar decorations that night?”

 

“Oh, no, no. He was covered in tattoos even then, but he _did_ acquire several new piercings.”

 

That sounded uncomfortable. Few Hobbits bothered with such things, though Bilbo had seen Dwarves in Mannarill adorn their ears with hoops and studs. Thorin himself had a cuff on the rounded shell of his left ear. “How many can you actually have in each ear until there’s no space left?” Thorin’s sister, Dís, had worn many last night but Bilbo hadn’t been close enough to count them.

 

Thorin blinked. A blush again settled across his cheeks, this time not as dark. “He didn’t pierce his ears, the piercings were… somewhere else.”

 

His tone suggested that ‘somewhere else’ was an intimate one; more intimate even than wrists. That sounded _even_ _more_ uncomfortable and Bilbo couldn’t hide a wince. That – how did – how did a race of people consider that normal custom while at the same considering that looking at wrists was lewd behaviour?

 

And yes, no one would be exposing those particular intimate bits to _everyone_ , but it was still very odd behaviour.

 

“I’m more interested in yourtattoo.” Bilbo tried to cross his feet at the ankles but failed thanks to his huge boots getting in the way. He swung them to and fro instead; his unchanged height meant they dangled some inches off the ground, even if he was seated on a Dwarf-made bench. “How did you choose a flower? They’re not very popular amongst y – amongst us.”

 

When Thorin hesitated, Bilbo gave him a look. “It’s not as if I’m going to tell anyone.” Thorin would assume that he was referring to his poor Khuzdul and his lack of Dwarf friends – which were both true, fine. But more than that, no one he knew would be interested in this sort of thing. No one would want to know why a Dwarf had a flower on his wrist, even if that Dwarf was important to Bilbo.

 

And of course Thorin was important to Bilbo. Friends were very important. Even if they were being evasive in response to simple questions.

 

“I have never seen this flower before,” Thorin admitted, after catching Bilbo’s expectant look. “Not physically, I mean. Underground flowers are hard to come by. Until now I’ve only heard of one.”

 

“One? Really?”

 

“They are small, smaller even than your fingernails, and the colour of rubellite.” Thorin was looking at him with something like fondness. “But I think you would rather I continue with my story.”

 

Yes, he did. Better to ask about the cave flower later (and figure out what rubellite was, never mind the colour). “How did you know what it looked like, then? A book?”

 

“This will sound strange.”

 

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “I… am getting used to strange.”

 

An expression flitted across Thorin’s face, too quick for Bilbo to catch. He only knew that it was not amusement – but the Dwarf had already schooled his expression. “Someone gave the flower to me. Years ago.” Now his fore- and middle-fingers rested on the hem of his sleeve, above said flower. “In a dream.”

 

… _what_?

 

Thorin mistook Bilbo’s silence for disbelief. He reached up and tucked a lopsided braid behind his ear, even teeth flashing as he laughed. “I told you it was strange!”

 

Bilbo was trying to convince himself that any mention of dreams was a coincidence. People had dreams all the time; boring or strange or frightening or ridiculous or portentous or funny, recurring or one-offs, involving oneself and/or others, sometimes remembered and sometimes not. Perhaps some could be magically induced but most were the product of imagination.

 

Thorin clearly could recall this old dream, but wasn’t relevant to Bilbo at all. Was it?

 

“Do you remember the face of the person in the dream?” he asked, cautious. “The one who gave you the flower?” That question was safe enough. No need to go into specifics about hairstyle or bare feet – or hair _on_ those feet.

 

“If I did, I don’t now.” Thorin’s shoulders bobbed in a shrug. “The clearest image I had was of the aster and I couldn’t help but draw it when I awoke. And then it was drawn onto my skin not long after.”

 

While drunk. “And you don’t…” Bilbo searched around for words. “You don’t regret it?”

 

“I do not.” His braid had fallen forwards again and he pushed it back. The cuff in his ear caught the light from both the moon and the _Ithildin_. “I cannot explain how it is important, only that it is. This aster is a part of me now. Why would I regret it?”

 

Why indeed. Bilbo swallowed done further questioning along these lines. Instead he asked, “Will you tell me more about the cave flower?”

 

Thorin indulged him as much as his knowledge allowed. Bilbo couldn’t fault that; a weaponsmith wouldn’t know minutiae of a plant. Most normal Dwarves wouldn’t and Thorin would think him odd for his interest, but Bilbo was sure that Thorin already thought that. He remained Bilbo’s friend all the same.

 

Their conversation morphed into the question of gifts and he learned that gifts made by one’s own hand were essentially priceless. Of these hair beads and clasps were particularly favoured since they had a practical use and could be customised to suit the gift giver’s skill and the recipient’s tastes. He was also told Dwarves did not give gifts on their birthday but were given them. A strange practice. He didn’t bring up the difference and instead repeated words taught to him; words for when to give gifts according to the occasion and different thank yous for such times. Thorin accompanied his lesson with stories of successful and failed bestowments of those close to him.

 

Bilbo’s favourite was a misunderstanding that led to Dís giving Víli a glass tank of seawater. He meant to follow it up with questions about the ocean – he had never been to any beach, even if the Gulf of Lhûn was nearby, and he did not know what was so special about them – but amongst Thorin’s tales and explanations was a repeating term that he was more curious about.

 

“Thorin? What is a One?”

 

He had come to recognise Thorin’s looks of incredulity, even if he was sure that Thorin was doing his best to supress them. It was either at being brought out of his explanation or at Bilbo’s (continued) ignorance. Bilbo squirmed under his gaze, releasing his breath slowly when the Dwarf’s shoulders relaxed.

 

“It is a term for someone you love.” His eyebrows twitched. “Though that is not a good description.”

 

“Then tell me more,” Bilbo suggested. “We have –” What hour was it? “We have some time left.”

 

“As you wish,” Thorin said. “Some Dwarves are born with a longing, a – a _want_ for another Dwarf. Once they’re old enough to understand and be aware of it, they cannot wish the feeling away. There are a lucky few who find their Ones early on in life and are able to spend most of their lives together. There are those who have only a few years, and there are those yet who pass on to Mahal’s hall without ever knowing the identity of their One.”

 

“That sounds…” _Sad. Horrible. Lonely_. ( _Familiar?_ ) “Why would anyone wish to have this longing?”

 

“The feeling of being with the other half of your soul is worth the risk of going without. It’s beyond words, Bobil.” He coughed a little. “I do not know how to explain further.”

 

Fair enough. Love was difficult to define, even without the added complication of this longing business. “But how do Dwarves know they’ve found their One? Do they know immediately? Or is it slow, just like falling in love?” Bilbo bit his lip, hesitating. “Do they dream of their Ones?”

 

Thorin hummed as he considered this. “It’s possible, but I do not think I’ve heard such things amongst my friends and family.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking… shy? “It is different for each person. For some Dwarves it is, as you say, immediate. Or it can take years. Or merely days.”

 

Bilbo was equal parts relieved and disappointed that Thorin hadn’t connected that particular question to the story of his aster-dream. But even if he had realised, there was no harm in _asking_. It wasn’t like Bilbo was trying to figure out if he was the One of the Dwarf in his dreams, but… even if that was the case, so what? The converse wouldn’t be true. Hobbits didn’t have Ones, now did they?

 

“Have there been Dwarves whose Ones are… not Dwarves?” Confound it. He shouldn’t’ve asked that. He was supposed to be a Dwarf, albeit one with limited information on his own kind, and shouldn’t have been asking about other races. It was a small mercy that he’d not specified Hobbits as the not-Dwarves. “Just out of curiosity.”

 

After a moment, Thorin shook his head. “I do not know if that has ever happened. There have been interracial relationships between our people and the Hobbits, of course, but that does not suggest the involvement of Ones. There haven’t been efforts to find out one way or another, I’ll admit, but there’s no real need to.” He laughed a little, but Bilbo did not join in.

 

He swallowed. “So if only certain Dwarves have Ones, what about the rest?”

 

“The rest go about such business as is usual, falling in love or not according to their preference. There are those who marry and those who do not. And any Dwarf can request to court another.”

 

“Request?” Why would anyone need to ask permission to give another tokens of their affection?

 

“It is only proper.”

 

Ah, yes, the Dwarvish propriety that he was learning more and more about. Bilbo supposed that it made sense given how private a people they were.

 

“Of course, courting formally is one of our oldest customs. It is a way of ensuring and showing love both. Any Dwarf can put forward a suit, but in the end the final decisions are made by the Dwarf they are courting.” Thorin’s chin dipped. “For those who enter courtships, they – we learn that love supersedes physical intimacy. So it should and does, since not all _want_ physical intimacy. We learn to keep our hands to ourselves, to better appreciate that which we may have.”

 

Thorin reached out and very carefully tugged on Bilbo’s sleeve so it was properly covering his wrist. He made sure to touch nothing but cloth and yet Bilbo was fighting to keep his heart from pitching and his breath from stuttering. When Thorin pulled back, Bilbo looked up into a waiting smile, and saw also his uneven braids in silver-touched dark hair, his eyes pale as a cold morning sky, crow’s eyes and frown creases and laugh lines, thin lips so often curved upwards in the times they’d spent together.

 

Just… Thorin was _beautiful_. How could he have denied this for so long? Bilbo wanted to reach up and trace the line of Thorin’s jaw, propriety be damned.

 

Because he’d been wrong. His feelings did go beyond simple gratitude. This emotion that coursed through him was _indescribable_ and yet he knew without doubt what it was. Why else would Thorin’s simple, chaste touches leave his skin tingling and yearning for more? Why else would he put so much stock into Thorin’s impression of him? Why else would mere thoughts about Thorin make his heart tremble?

 

Maybe he had fallen in love more quickly than ever he’d expected, but that might be what it was like for a Dwarf when they found their One, even if he was no Dwarf. Surely the months of steadily strengthening dreams counted for something. The phantom touches no longer troubled him. He couldn’t be wrong, it _had_ to be –

 

Bilbo wet his lips. “Thorin, I…”

 

The Dwarf’s smile turned inviting. “Do you have a question, my friend?”

 

_My friend._

 

Reality and realisation shattered over Bilbo like a sheet of ice. To Thorin, he was a student and friend but nothing more. He was not Thorin’s One – Thorin would have made it clear otherwise. His love was not returned and with two days left, he had not the time to win Thorin over, whether by this Dwarvish courting ritual or otherwise.

 

The slim chance of Thorin loving him was not worth losing the friendship they already had.

 

He sighed quietly and made himself sit back. “I wanted to thank you for teaching me all this.”

 

“No thanks are needed.” Thorin gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I have told you before, I want to be here with you.”

 

And Bilbo wanted to be here with Thorin. Gazing up at him wistfully, Bilbo wondered if he was brave enough to ask if Thorin ever had a One (whether past or current or yet unknown). Perhaps it would be better if he never knew. Then he could pretend and think – imagine, desire – whatever he wanted.

 

Maybe his Dwarf was Thorin. He hoped it was just as keenly as he wished it wasn’t, because… Because even if Thorin _somehow_ loved Bilbo as more than a friend, there was no way they’d be able to be together. Not when he would permanently return to being a Hobbit. Not when Bilbo had hidden his identity.

 

Not when he’d lied to Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit:  
> Aster - September birth flower, symbol of **great love**. thanks to murilegus for reminding me to add this note.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is stupidly late. It's a combination of busyness and writer's block. It's been more horrible for me than for you tbh, considering how often I wanted to hurt myself for not finishing the damn chapter.  
> I'd say writing it was like pulling teeth, but pulling teeth is a lot easier.
> 
> Thanks always to alkjira, who is patient and fast and lovely.
> 
> Anyhow, more bad news in the form of me putting this fic aside - for the moment! - because I need to get my Big Bang fic settled. And there's probably some irony of pausing my reverse big bang for my big bang, but I don't really care.
> 
> This story _will_ be finished. No doubts about that, I _want_ you guys to read the climax. It's just going to take some time.
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me. I hope you weren't/aren't too disappointed.


	12. 6.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day six: Storytelling and epics.
> 
> Really, is it a secret by now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None.

This place used to be part of a gold mine. The waterfalls were fed by rain and natural springs, tumbling from outlets at several levels, and would finally into the Brandywine. The walls of the cavern and the banks of the lake were covered by a fine sheen of water and, following that, different types of cave fungus; flat or spindly or squat, scattered or clustered, in a range of colours similar to pearls’, large or small or any size in between.

Far sparser were the flowers he’d mentioned the previous night. They were actually white bulbs that opened twice a year and housed about a dozen jewel red florets like pomegranate seeds. Óin had shown them to Thorin and explained how they were used in combating black lung. Thorin had… drifted off for most of that lecture.

Standing this close, the water was near deafening. Thorin preferred it this way; he could go over his thoughts without distraction.

Lying in bed last night had left him grasping at memories of an old, old dream. He’d had it, oh, eighty, ninety years ago? Before Fíli had been born.

He’d not really thought anything of it at the time, other than vague surprise that he’d managed to remember one of his dreams. That did not happen often. Oh, and he’d also been surprised to be able to recall parts of it weeks after. The person in his dream had been shorter than he was (though that was not so surprising; he was tall for a Dwarf, even if not as tall as Kíli). He also remembered slender fingers offering the flo – the aster.

Other details eluded Thorin, but he _had_ had that dream only once.

The spray from the waterfall was making him damp. Thorin pulled his already curling hair into a tail, now thinking of last night when Bobil brought up the question of Dwarves dreaming of their One. Thorin couldn’t help but combine that question with his own dream, couldn’t help but think Bobil was the person with the blue flower. It was harmless wondering, even if it was accompanied by no small amount of wishful thinking.

But he also couldn’t help speculate if Bobil had asked that particular question for a reason. It wasn’t _too_ wrong to suppose at the possibility of Bobil dreaming of his One (or even to suppose that he _had_ a One), but Thorin went a step further in his hope that _he_ could be the focus of Bobil’s dreams.

Would the other Dwarf admit as much? Thorin couldn’t say for sure. Bobil likely wouldn’t volunteer the information even if he was forthright with his opinions. If he wanted to speak his mind with Thorin, then he would. At the same time, Thorin fancied himself able to gauge Bobil’s feelings; there had been hesitance to his questions. Was that to guard the possibility of Thorin being his One – or was it just that Thorin was being presumptuous?

Because hadn’t he also asked after non-Dwarves? Bobil could have set his sights on someone like a Hobbit – and would then no longer need Thorin’s help, whether in language or customs.

Thorin brushed the tiny flowers with the tips of his fingers.

Bobil’s touch haunted him. He’d been firm but not brusque, one hand cradling Thorin’s and the other pushing up his sleeve. Thorin was already flushed as he recalled the slide of fingers up the inside of his wrist. It was not intended to be intimate, yet was in Thorin’s mind.

Thorin had never been touched there by another Dwarf, friend or stranger. Propriety did not consider it something attempted casually. It was meant to be private – but like other societal norms, Bobil was unaware of this unwritten rule. He would not know how hands were revered in Dwarf culture.

But oh, he was talking as if Bobil would disappear after the seventh night. He would still be welcome in the Mountain, Thorin would make sure of that, and if willing he would still take lessons from Thorin. If he had a more complete Khuzdul vocabulary he’d be able to find his One without any interference from Thorin. (Not that he would be so callous to interfere. His primary want was Bobil’s happiness, and if that lay in the arms of another Dwarf – or Hobbit –, so be it.)

Thorin toyed with the idea of courting Bobil. Properly. He’d explained the basics and maybe could find something (or someone?) to further supplement that knowledge. It was only after that Thorin could even think of putting forth his suit. If he was refused straightaway then Thorin would know Bobil loved someone else. But if he consented, then… then Thorin had a chance.

But what would he even offer? Nothing came to mind; there were very many things he did not know about his newest friend. What was his preferred metal, his favourite gemstone, his usual accessory arrangement?

Hmm. He could bring something small for Bobil for tomorrow night. It wouldn’t carry the same weight of a suit made with care and intent but… he’d be able to gauge Bobil’s reaction to gifts and a possible courtship both. He had an idea of what to give and, if things grew sour, could always fall back on naming it a gift between friends. Yes, that was safe.

Thorin used both hands to rub the worst of the water from his face, pushing wet curls of hair behind his ears. Perhaps he ought to relocate, if not away from this cavern then at least a drier place away from the waterfalls.

As he turned he caught sight of a familiar figure and, instead of retreating from the water, approached Bifur standing on the Quartz Bridge. It was so named for the quartz unearthed from this very cavern set into the stone, citrine amethyst morganite agate carnelian onyx jasper and others, smoothened by water and each step of boot. There were railings here as the bridge spanned the widest and deepest part of the cavern lake (53 and 466 furlongs respectively).

Bifur didn’t start when Thorin touched his shoulder, only gazed at the ripples in the water for a moment longer before turning. He smiled.

“I did not expect to see you here, O’ King.”

“Well, I have been told often this week –” _very_ often, in fact, “– that Kings do not have many duties. Or any duties at all.” He frowned. No one gave him any respect. “And yourself?”

“Oh, this is one of my favourite places in the Mountain.” Drops of water glistened like crystal in his braids. “Few people disturb me here.”

Ah. Inwardly wincing, Thorin half turned away. He’d not even considered that his presence was unwanted. That may have been a little too arrogant of him. “Um. Should I –?”

Confusion and then realisation crossed the other Dwarf’s face. “I did not mean you. Do not worry.” The corner of his mouth lifted, his chuckle lost in the thunder of water. “If I did not mean to speak with you, you would know it. I’d just have to keep my hands still.”

“Very true.” That was the core of Iglishmêk after all, the Dwarvish language best used with deaf Dwarves or as an alternative to Khuzdul in a non-Dwarvish place or – as it was now – in noisy environments. Was it not a factor in his choosing this place?

“I only came here to watch the water and count the ripples. How about you? Why are you here?”

“Just thinking about…” Bobil. The Dwarf he loved. The Dwarf he knew to be his One but was not brave to admit so. The Dwarf who might break off their friendship if he found out Thorin’s deception; the Dwarf who would be completely right in doing so. “About Durin’s Week so far.”

Bifur nodded. “It’s been quite enjoyable this year. I’m quite looking forward to this evening.” He clarified, after Thorin raised his eyebrows: “My story will be the first performed.”

Ah right. The Battle of the Five Armies, now he remembered. It was a tale of a company of Dwarves travelling across the world in search of a home, fighting foes and forging friendships along the way, and culminated in a climactic chapter of this same company caught in the middle of a war. It covered fantasy and adventure and romance, dipping into levity and solemnity alike. Bofur had convinced Bifur to share it with his friends and Bombur had convinced him to share it with the world. It also happened to be Kíli’s favourite book (hopefully not because it included Elves).

Usually stories took some decades before they were even considered for Durin’s Week and the fact that Bifur had written his six years ago was testament to his skill.

“I hope that this will be the first _time_ it is performed.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“Of course.” The corners of Thorin’s mouth twitched. “It is impossible to be sarcastic in Iglishmêk.”

“Not impossible,” Bifur corrected. “Perhaps I will teach you, but first.”

“First?”

“I have heard from my cousin that you have met someone special.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. His friends were well meaning (probably), but they needed other things to gossip about than his personal life. He’d fielded such questions ever since he’d first spoken with Bobil and he was weary enough to forgo his usual denial. “I do not dispute that he is special, but that does not have the same connotation that Bofur has implied, I’m sure.”

“He _implied_ that you may have found your One.”

“That’s what I meant. Ridiculous claim.”

Bifur smiled knowingly. “No, it’s not.”

Thorin found himself blushing; the waterfall or anything else in the cavern, unfortunately, could not hide this. “It is. Ridiculous is the perfect word to describe it.” That was nothing but truth. He’d fallen in love with someone who’d literally bumped into him, someone who was a Dwarf but knew next to nothing about being one. They’d spent most of the previous nights together to rectify that lack of knowledge but they did not _truly_ know each other.

A tap to his arm brought his attention back to Bifur. “The situation may be ridiculous, but the claim is not. You have found your One.”

Thorin said nothing. What, how –?

“I do know what it is like.” He was still smiling. “To realise I had found my Nejmel.”

“Is she well?” The question was a pathetic attempt to change the subject and he knew it. Desperate times. In Thorin’s defence, though, he had not seen Bifur in a while, much less his sweetheart. For obvious reasons, they’d two been around more often when Fíli and Kíli were younger.

Bifur was toymaker by trade, and while Nejmel had been a stonemason for many decades, she now helped him sell toys and trinkets in Mannarill. Thorin did not know the reason for this change of profession, especially since they’d met after the fact. She gave no indication of regretting that decision and had a disposition to match Bifur’s.

She was quick to smile and was _extremely_ good at haggling with Hobbits. They were likely drawn by her sense of humour alongside being drawn to Bifur’s skill. Thorin had never been to Mannarill himself – which ought to be rectified, maybe with Bobil? – but he could imagine lively conversations in Westron punctuated with Iglishmêk exchanges. Bifur would be carving a new creation or fixing a new one, knife and pliers close at hand. Nejmel would be encouraging potential customers, wearing a scarf to protect her bare head from the sun.

They were not married but it was obvious to all who saw them that they were completely devoted to each other. Not that a handjoining ceremony should be a necessary component to happiness.

“She is very well,” Bifur said, breaking Thorin’s meanderings. “Though she has demanded the beard of a distant cousin.”

“For?”

“He suggested that she should buy one for herself.”

Thorin winced. Nejmel had every right to challenge that relative; it served him right for being a tactless idiot. He told Bifur as much.

“Even idiocy cannot excuse him.” Bifur shook his head. “However, this is not what I wanted to discuss.”

Damn. Any idea to divert the topic fled as Thorin’s mind blanked. Perhaps he could instead come up with a reason to leave? He was meant to meet with the royal scribes but Bifur didn’t know that was supposed to be in an hour. Otherwise he could blame his family, they could be convenient at times. Or –

Or he could just face this.

“When…” Thorin sighed. “When did you know you were each other’s Ones? How?”

“It took her days, but me… she courted me, did you know? I always had the feeling in the back of my mind but I needed her for me to fully realise what it was.” He looked fond. “It was a short courtship but we learned many things. It brought us even closer than we were before.”

Thorin wanted that.

“But it is different for each Dwarf. You’ve realised, I assume without the knowledge of your One.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know how to share this knowledge to them?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you should speak with Nejmel.”

“I’d rather limit my humiliation, thank you.”

“This should not be humiliating. You have found your One. It is a happy time.”

Maybe so, but for Thorin it was tinged with panic and doubt. There were too many complications and too many ways it could go wrong. If they played out so badly in Thorin’s head surely they’d be even worse in actuality?

Movement caught his eye; Bifur was still speaking.

“Would you like advice?”

Thorin shook his head, no. Then he reconsidered. “Not yet.”

Bifur patted his arm. “Will you tell me some of this Dwarf?”

He was blushing before he could stop himself, trying to cover it by bringing his hands up to speak. “He…” Thorin bit his lip. What could he say? What _should_ he say? He clenched his fingers into fists before consciously relaxing them. Finally: “His name is Bobil,” he said, and then the words found him. Anything personal was skipped over, but Thorin suddenly found that there was an endless list of details _about_ Bobil that he loved, whether enchanting or exasperating, or both. The way he tripped over Khuzdul consonants, the arrogant toss of his head when he thought Thorin was wrong, the way he fussed over ‘good manners’, the almost-constant furrow between his brows, his nose and the way he twitched it.

Bifur had been right: Thorin was happy. He’d be lying if he said that it wasn’t a _relief_ to tell someone, but more than that he wanted to share Bobil’s quality. He felt proud doing so.

He was suddenly aware that he was gushing worse than the water in front of them, but Bifur only observed serenely. There was no indulgence or mocking in his expression and that put Thorin at ease.

Was that because he wanted approval? Well… it would definitely be preferable for his friends and family to like his One. (If said One actually returned his feelings and was willing to meet the rest of Thorin’s loved ones was another story). But who wouldn’t like Bobil? No one Thorin knew – or wanted to know.

The point was rather moot. It would be some time before introducing Bobil to anyone was an option… and for that to be an option, he would have to tell Bobil the truth.

The entire truth.

“It is fortunate that he has no qualms about your title as King.”

Thorin tried not to shuffle his feet, but his guilt probably shone brighter than the hottest forge under the Mountain.

Bifur’s smile dropped. “He does not know? How is it possible that he does not know?”

Thorin had wondered much the same. “I… haven’t asked.” He didn’t want to. It would mean shattering the little world he’d been sharing with Bobil these past nights. Couldn’t he pretend for a little longer?

“Then why haven’t you told him?”

He formed the first words that came to mind. “I would know if he’s genuine. If he enjoyed my company for myself, rather than my crown.” He definitely did not mention the real reason – because he was afraid, afraid that Bobil would leave because of Thorin’s identity, or worse, because Thorin had _lied_.

“Genuine? Clearly he is. If not –”

“It’s perfectly possible to have a One who isn’t the most scrupulous of Dwarves.”

“Yes. But you are smitten. You have taken time to realise he is your One, and I rather think that you are more than capable of judging another Dwarf based on the strengths and faults of his character.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Consider our circle of friends. Not all of us would meet the expectations of society.”

“Myself included?”

“Perhaps.”

Thorin laughed. “I can only aspire to be as stern and all-knowing as the people believe. I’m sure I’ve achieved the pompous formality.”

Bifur did not return the laugh or even rib Thorin further. He looked thoughtful. “Could he be part Hobbit?”

Once again, Thorin had wondered about this option. It was _exceedingly_ rare to find someone who was born of Hobbit and Dwarf parents but not impossible. It might even have explained the gaps in Bobil’s language, but _no_ Dwarf would keep Khuzdul from their child, whoever the other parent was. At the very least they would have given him a true name.

What he said was: “I don’t think so.” It wasn’t a lie. “He does not wish that I pry into his personal life. I haven’t.” This also wasn’t a lie. His efforts to determine Bobil’s family crest hadn’t really brought any results, so they did not count.

“You ought to make mention of it, at least. Not many would be happy when saddled with someone they suddenly know to be royalty.

“I wouldn’t saddle myself.” Hmm. Did that make sense? Thorin couldn’t help but imagine himself on all fours, which really wasn’t an appropriate sort of thought. Adding Bobil to that wouldn’t help. “I would honour any choice he has.”

“Of that I have no doubt. You are a good Dwarf, Thorin.”

And a liar.

“This would make a good story,” Bifur said suddenly, laughing. “Would you mind if I used it?”

“Will it have a happy ending?” Thorin asked, somewhat hopeful.

Bifur smiled at him, wide and sincere. “That is entirely up to you.”

* * *

No one announced his arrival, for which Thorin was grateful. Such was his preference even on official visits. Even so, his presence was noticed. The bustle and goings on did not stop, but as he passed through, all the Dwarves in the room bowed or nodded their heads according to their character and rank.

Most all.

“If you’re here to gather information for my brother – either brother, or both of them – don’t bother. Then kindly tell them to do the same.”

Thorin raised one eyebrow, appraising, shifting so his weight was on his back foot. “I’m going to remind you I am not known for my subtlety.”

Ori still didn’t look up from his notes, scribbling something down in the margin of the topmost parchment and then passing it to an aide. More annotations on another piece of parchment, which went to a runner. “That could just be a double bluff.”

“Despite how enjoyable it would be to know more than Nori –” for once “– I’ll change the subject. Though I want to reiterate that it wasn’t the reason for my being here at all.”

“Good. You can personally understand how annoying these sorts of questions are. Especially recently.”

Thorin sighed. “Somehow I’m not surprised you know.” Did all of his friends gather for supper and discuss the goings on in Thorin’s life? They either had too much time on their hands or were exceptionally spiteful. _Both_ , he decided.

Another aide passed a report to Ori; he made a face when he saw that it was covered in red ink. “Your new… development is only common knowledge among your friends, Thorin. We’re not going to let it spread beyond that.” He dipped the nib of his pen into the portable inkwell on his writing board. “Well, Nori definitely won’t.”

At least that was true. Nori’s control of intelligence extended past merely gathering; there was also information to keep hidden or to give out. Now there was a horrifying concept: Nori actually allowing those details to spread across the Mountain, leading to Dwarves gossiping about their pathetic King and his not-private private life.

“My concern is that it has been spread amongst _you_.” Thorin nodded at the two runners that bowed to him as they passed. “I’m supposed to be respected, not teased.” He saw Ori open his mouth and quickly added, “Well-meaning or not.”

“I was actually going to say that teasing you was fun. Is fun.” He shrugged. “And you are no innocent when there’s opportunity to tease someone else.”

Thorin frowned. “I only make a few jokes.”

“Terrible jokes. And _more_ than a few.”

His jokes weren’t terrible, Thorin thought sullenly. People laughed at them. Or were they laughing at him? Entirely likely, considering his friends, but he’d always thought they appreciated the jokes as well. Maybe it was just Ori who considered them ‘terrible’.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Ori said, tapping his pen on the blotter. “Why are you here?”

Just as it was lifting, Thorin’s frown returned in full force. “At your behest? I am not the one who arranged this meeting.”

Ori stared at him for a good half-minute. “Oh. That’s right. I forgot all about you.”

“Evidently I am not memorable.”

“You’re no one special. Just the King.”

Thorin let out a snort of laughter. “Indeed.”

“And I forgot about this meeting as well. Despite sending the request.” He snickered. “But now I recall; I wanted to get these issues settled before tomorrow.”

“Expecting to be busy?”

“I’m always busy. I only want to enjoy the night without additional distractions. I have promised many dances but they’re hardly going to consume all my attention,” Ori said. “Now, Nori’ and Dori’s wild flails in the dark to find out things about my personal life, they will keep me busy before and after tomorrow.”

“Thought you didn’t want to discuss the dancing?”

“I’m not the one who brought it up.”

Neither did him. Not directly.

“The first thing I _do_ wish to bring up is that I have three petitions for the closure of the western pentlandite ores and two against it.”

Ugh. Thorin was passed a small sheaf of parchment. He skimmed through quickly; he’d need to examine them properly later (preferably never) but for now, “Summarise it.”

“This is all in reference to the new blanket deposits found by the Bor family. They have sold the mining rights to Realla and her clan.” Ori nodded when Thorin’s brows lifted. “That complicates matters, I know. She was about to open the mine personally but her children talked her out of it. One of the petitions is from them. It is the loudest.”

“No doubt.”

“As for the others, they are just general opposition to the room and pillar mining; it’s only being brought up now since the Lla’s are backing it.”

“We’ve used that method for years.”

“That is the argument of those who want to open those mines. They are offering to buy the ores, but –”

“But the price has gone through the mountain.”

“Yes. I am unsure if this is all a ploy for money, or if the Lla’s are trying to keep others safe.” Ori scratched the side of his face, leaving behind a smudge of ink. “The Mining Guilds cannot come to a consensus on the issue. So they have brought it to you.”

“What do you advise?”

“I…” A blush bloomed beneath Ori’s freckles. “Er, what?”

“Your advice. I would have it.”

Ori seemed to grow more flustered. “That’s… I know you’re not joking, but, are you sure?”

“Aye.” Fondness coloured his smile and his voice. “You are well versed in the issue, why wouldn’t I want to hear your thoughts?”

“I can list a few reasons.”

“Ori.”

“Well it’s retreat mining that’s in dispute here. Very dangerous, quite deadly. Even so, Bofur’s been telling me about the new techniques that’ve been introduced to keep the pillars stiff so there are fewer cave-ins.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, like he was internally debating.

“Go on,” Thorin encouraged.

“It’s just… why did the Bor’s sell to their rivals? – and why did the Lla’s buy? Sabotage? Coincidence? Or a deep collusion for gold?”

He wasn’t sure what was worse, rivals sabotaging rivals or rivals teaming to sabotage others. “Maybe I should have Nori look into this as well.” This wasn’t an excuse to put off making decisions. More information wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, Ori. What else did you want to tell me?”

Ori glanced down at his notes and cleared his throat. “We need fourteen new underscribes.”

“Why?” Thorin asked. “Have they all run away?”

“Hardly. Vorra has decided this morning to announce she is moving to the Grey Mountains.”

“And you need fourteen Dwarves to replace her?”

“Ideally about _nine_ teen, but fourteen will do. Ten in a pinch.”

Thorin blinked. That was one productive Dwarf. “And what can I do about it?”

“I need you to sign this chit. It supersedes the monthly allowance allotted by the treasury.”

“Supersedes Glóin, you mean,” he commented dryly, though he accepted the offered pen.

“This needs to be done quickly,” Ori sighed. “I’d be happy to fill out the forms and follow protocol, but good scribes are difficult to come by. They will likely be pulled from other assignments and we must guarantee compensation to them and their previous employers.”

“Shouldn’t the prospect of being a royal scribe be enough?” He rather thought that the scribes would jump at the thought and their employers graciously accept it.

“Not necessarily.” The signed chit went to another aide who skimmed through, folded, and sealed it with a speed that awed Thorin. “And on a related note, since my communications on the matter seem to have disappeared instead of being delivered to you, I’m turning down your offer of staying in the royal wing. Respectfully so, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because… I don’t want to?”

“It’s a benefit offered to those of your rank.”

“And how many actually take up this offer?”

“…most of them?”

Ori huffed. “That is because it’s not the _same_ offer. The other scribes do not live with the royal family. You want to put me up by Fíli and Kíli.”

Ah. “Dís and Víli were hoping that you’d be a calming influence.”

“I doubt that is even possible.”

“I… actually, I cannot refute that.”

“And as much as they’re my friends, I won’t feel comfortable.” He shrugged – alarm flashed across his face when he almost upset his inkwell. “I have to stay with Dori and Nori (whenever he’s around) for another decade or so, at the very least. Until they no longer need me.”

Thorin laughed. No one would’ve expected such an admission, given the way Ori’s older brothers fussed over and mothered him.

“It’s becoming difficult to make them think they’re in charge,” Ori continued, sighing again. “So maybe it will be less than a decade.”

“ _Then_ you’ll consider trying to wrangle my nephews into shape?”

A wry smile. “I do not think there are benefits enough for it to be worth my while. But to get back to what I wanted to say…” He nearly poked his eye in his effort to thumb his nose with pen in hand. “Actually, I think all these other issues can wait. I’ll send the relevant information for your perusal.”

Efficient as always. “Do you not wish to bring up anything pertaining to tonight’s activities?”

“No. I have had everything settled for months.” Ori looked insulted at the insinuation otherwise.

“Except for needing ten thousand more scribes.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“A hundred, then.”

“Better. Still too high, but better.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “How can you have resolved everything so long ago? I would’ve thought that there were an infinite number of possibilities for things to go wrong. And _that_ ’s no exaggeration.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I am good at what I do.”

“And you’ve had Vorra to help you. The equivalent of a hundred scribes.” Hmm. “Does that mean you’re the same?”

“As productive, you mean?”

“Doing a disproportionate amount of work, all exaggeration aside. You said that you would be taking on fewer underscribes than necessary; don’t tell me that means you will be picking up the slack.”

“Then I won’t tell you.” Ori’s ears were red. “We’re all sharing the load, Thorin. You needn’t worry. I have Nori and Dori to do so.”

“I’ll make sure you receive more Dwarves than you officially requested.”

Ori shifted in place, looking like he wanted to clutch his writing board to his chest, if only it did not mean spilling ink all over his work and himself. “I’m… grateful for the help, Thorin, but having more new underscribes means more time taken to train them accordingly. There is a reason why royal scribes have to be selected specially.”

Right. He should have known that.

“I know you’re trying to help, but fourteen is ideal for the time being. We _have_ thought this through.”

Now it was time for Thorin’s ears to heat. He demurred. “Meaning that I don’t mull things over as thoroughly as you?”

“Not all the time,” Ori said plainly, though without spite. “But you do so out of good intentions, as far as I’ve observed.”

Thorin harrumphed. That latter sentence was meant to placate him, but it hadn’t worked. Not in the slightest.

“But I am glad.”

“About what?”

“I am glad you’re taking your time with this newest acquaintance of yours.” There was no mocking in Ori’s voice or face. In fact he looked proud, and Thorin felt it a little strange that someone almost a century younger could feel proud of him. “From what I hear, things are going well.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he muttered.

“Oh, Nori’s usually good for his information.”

Thorin laughed, but did not reveal the true meaning behind his words. Things were ‘going well’, yes, but only so far. There were still secrets to bring to light and confessions to make. If Bobil did not shatter their friendship after learning the truth, then that would be classified as ‘going well’. If Bobil returned Thorin’s feelings and stayed with him, if they had their happy ending then…

Well, it sounded impossible at this point, but it was nice to pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nejmel - Petal  
> I'd just like to make it clear that Nejmel has alopecia (universalis), hair loss due to an autoimmune problem.
> 
> The waterfall mentioned was inspired by this -- [[link](http://ravarastwinkletoecutiepie.tumblr.com/post/116109425012/sixpenceee-ruby-falls-is-a-145-foot-high)]  
> The specs were exaggerated for the purposes of this fic ;D
> 
> Quartz bridge also cameos in another fic [(Almost Believing) This One's Not Pretend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13067673/chapters/29892675), which is a modern!Middle-Earth pretend relationship/mutual pining fic.
> 
>  
> 
> Goodness. It's been exactly 5 months since I've updated. Those of you who know me on tumblr probably had to suffer through my complaints of being unproductive when it came to writing. I'm happy to finally update this, however. As for the next update, well... I'm in my final year of dentistry, so either it'll be super late because I'm busy or super early because I'm busy. Swings and roundabouts.
> 
> Hope this made up for the wait. Thanks for sticking around.
> 
>  
> 
> oh, and just to let you know, I deleted and remade my tumblr account.


	13. 6.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day six: Storytelling and epics.
> 
> Bilbo offers up his own story in exchange for one of Thorin's, and they set things up for the last night - the last of Durin's Week and the last they'll have together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Shameless references to the author's own fics. Like, seriously.

“Your attention seems to be focused elsewhere.”

 

Bilbo felt a blush curl around his ears. “I’m sorry, Thorin. I did not mean to – I’m sorry if I offended.”

 

“Not at all,” was the mild reply. “But is something wrong? Something I can help with?”

 

Besides the tragedy of Bilbo’s misplaced feelings and the complications thanks to Gandalf’s bright idea to use his magic to solve Bilbo’s problems? Well, there was one thing… “I’m just a little disappointed,” he said, gazing up into patient blue eyes, “that I’m unable to understand the stories being told in the Hall. I’m sure they’re beautiful.”

 

“Some yes, some no.”

 

“That was an unnecessary comment.” Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “I am well aware that not all stories in the world are beautiful.”

 

To this, Thorin shrugged and offered, in lieu of an actual apology, “You have said that you are a writer, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How about if you tell me one of your stories, then, and I will tell you one of ours?”

 

“Will that be an equal exchange?”

 

“Why do you ask that?”

 

His lips twitched, and then formed a smirk. “I know _my_ story will be beautiful.”

 

Thorin laughed. Strange that someone’s teeth could be attractive. Or maybe that was just bias talking. “Prove it, then.”

 

 _Well_ , Bilbo thought. _Why not_?

 

“In a hole in the ground,” he started, “there lived a Hobbit.”

 

It was a gamble, but he figured it’d be safe enough. The beginning of his tale was full of general titbits of knowledge – the likes and dislikes of Hobbits, snatches of the daily lives of farmers, hersdhobbits, merchants, and other professions of Shirefolk. It made him strangely pleased to then describe what a typical Hobbit party was like so that Thorin could compare and contrast in his own time.

 

Thorin sat facing Bilbo, leaning against the wall, expression neutral but his eyes deep and intent. To be completely honest, Bilbo was afraid they would not be intent for much longer, afraid that the Dwarf would lose interest if he went on too long about ordinary things, and so he did not dawdle with rambling.

 

He launched into his pride and joy, the tale of a Hobbit who had been snatched out of her quiet, bachelor lifestyle; the at-first unwilling member of a company of adventurers, signed up onto a quest.

 

This was of course of a story of his own devising, filled with fighting Wolves and spiders and a Dragon and – most horrifyingly – a complete lack of handkerchiefs and second breakfasts.

 

“…a big branch all on fire at one end; and Bert got that bit in his eye before he could step aside!”

 

Thorin nodded. “That is what I would have done exactly.”

 

“It turned out for naught in the end,” Bilbo said, smiling a little. “For even though the leader managed to knock some teeth from another Troll’s mouth, he was caught up in a sack in a thrice.”

 

“Along with the Hobbit and the rest of their friends!”

 

“Exactly that. But you see, our heroine wasn’t to be doubted. She was frightened, yes, knees a-knocking as she tried to get to her feet. But she looked over the company, each in trussed up like roasting chickens and trying to wriggle their way free, she looked at them and found some bravery under her breast.

 

“So she walked forward – or hobbled, she was still in her own sack, of course – and shouted, ‘Excuse me!’” Bilbo leaned forward and Thorin mirrored him, his stocky fingers twisting the hem of his silver-stitched black tunic. “And there she was, at the mercy of three monstrous Trolls – and they had been arguing amongst themselves about how they were going to cook their prisoners, whether to turn them on a spit or sit on them one by one, and squash them into jelly.”

 

Thorin gasped, exactly like a Hobbitling would have, and fondness wrapped around Bilbo’s already smitten heart.

 

“She made herself stand as tall as she could and told them she was a deft hand in the kitchen, and that she knew the absolute _best_ way to proceed. Of course, the Trolls started to argue again, with her and each other – they spent so long bickering about the whether-tos and why-fors that the suns first light crept up over the trees and _poof_! Turned them all to stone!”

 

With the rapt attention of his audience, Bilbo continued on, weaving the company’s journey through to Rivendell and then up and over the Misty Mountains, and then beyond still. The conclusion of it all was a happy ending, the triumph of good over evil, and the realisation that adventures were not always terrible. (And it really seemed that they were not; after all, wasn’t this week an adventure of his own?)

 

“…and she lived happily ever after, ‘til the end of her days.”

 

Bilbo exhaled slowly. He had lingering uncertainty about the reaction he would receive but that was eclipsed by the satisfaction of finishing a work and being able to share it with someone. It helped that that someone was as important to him as Thorin was. “What did you think of it?” he asked.

 

“You are truly a great storyteller,” Thorin said, voice quietly awed. “If you had shared this in the hall, it would have been very well received.”

 

“Thank you.” Bilbo hesitated. “It is the first time I have shared it with another.”

 

Surprise flitted across pale eyes. “It is my turn to thank you, for honouring me with that privilege.” He braids slipped from behind his ears when he bowed his head.

 

Bilbo found he’d pressed his hand to his chest, above his heart. “I could not offer you a less than exceptional story.”

 

Thorin smiled, then said, “You know a lot about Hobbits.” Unspoken was the tag ‘more than our own people’.

 

“Oh, I… I have Hobbit friends.”

 

“I confess that I have none and know little.” He tucked his braids back into place. “But I should like to change that.”

 

Bilbo found this encouraging but at the same time not. If they had met while Bilbo was a Hobbit – _if_ – then would Thorin have still been interested in learning more about Hobbits? Would Thorin have wanted to learn more about Bilbo? Would Thorin have even been interested in Bilbo beyond a first glance?

 

Ah, but it was a moot point. None of this would happen. _He_ only had one more night and then their paths would never cross again. He needed to come to terms with that.

 

“You mentioned that the adventurers were a mix of races, Dwarves and Men and –” a distasteful expression graced Thorin’s face, “– Elves.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Imagine if they had all been our people.”

 

“All Ho – all Dwarves?” He considered it. “Then the Hobbit would be quite consternated.” He would be, if he was in their place. It was true that he’d always wished to know more about Dwarves, but adventuring with thirteen of them for many months might have been a little too much to handle.

 

He internally shook his head, looking up at Thorin. “You’d be the leader of that band of Dwarves, I’d wager.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“You seem a natural leader. Someone that people would follow willingly.”

 

“And would you? Follow me willingly?”

 

“Yes.” He said this like it was an obvious truth, because it was.

 

Pride dawned on Thorin’s face and he clasped Bilbo’s shoulder. “Again you honour me.”

 

Bilbo would have shrugged, but he did not want to jostle Thorin’s hand into letting go.

 

“Who would you be in this company?” Thorin asked. “My second in command?”

 

“Oh, no, no. You know I’m not very good at fighting.” If at all. “I’d be the Hobbit.”

 

This made Thorin chuckle, his fingers briefly tightening their hold before he pulled away and sat back. “I do not know why, but that suits you very well. Perhaps it is your stature or your curly hair or perhaps your bravery.”

 

Thrown from complaining about the insult to his height, Bilbo blinked. “You think I’m brave?”

 

“Of course.” Surprise coloured his voice. “You would not be here if you were not so.” He lifted his hand, as if he was about to hold Bilbo’s, but let it fall to his lap again. “Not all braveness is measured in weapons and battles.”

 

Well, that was a statement he could not argue with, but Thorin’s faith in him was misplaced. Brave as Thorin called him, Bilbo was clearly coward enough to keep his feelings from being known.

 

“Are you well?” Bilbo blinked up into Thorin’s inquiring expression. “Is there something wrong?”

 

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “I was only wondering when you would prove you are better than me.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about _better_ ,” was the modest reply, “but I hope to be as good.” He waited for Bilbo to smile. “This is an old story,” Thorin said, “of two great Dwarves of the past. It is a classic, known to most Dwarves. I think you will enjoy it.”

 

Bilbo was sure he would.

 

“Their names were Nalir Sunbeard and Broll the Adept.”

 

If nothing else, Thorin’s voice was perfect for storytelling. Bilbo already knew that it was deep and dark, but put to use like this made it easy for Bilbo to slip into the creation that was being weaved. He felt like he was in the forge that Broll the Adept worked in, able to feel the heat against the skin as the Dwarf’s hammer rose and fell. He could see the details of the beads Broll wore and compared them to the simplicity of his apron and work clothes. When Broll noticed that he had a visitor and turned to the door, Bilbo did the same.

 

Nalir certainly earned her name with hair that was brighter than wheat in the sun. She was shorter than Bilbo and her clothes were plain. She wore a shortsword on her belt and two throwing axes by her left hip, and then a big double-edged axe on her back.

 

“ _If you mean to gawp like a frog, leave._ ”

 

“ _I…_ ” Nalir drew a finger down the scar on her cheek, a nervous gesture. “ _I want to court you._ ”

 

“ _I will say again: leave._ ”

 

Bilbo came to learn that this was not the last of this exchange, because Nalir did not give up easily and because Broll did not give in easily. But that all changed when Nalir’s courtship gift was accepted.

 

“What was the gift?” Bilbo asked.

 

“No one can say for sure. Some say it was a great mithril box, studded with emeralds as bright as Broll's eyes. Others say it was a length of fine gold chain, thin as thread and impossible to break. There are even accounts of a great opal, the size of an egg, set into a silver filigree locket.” A pause. “All that is known for sure is that it was a gift that demonstrated enough skill for Broll to smile at Nalir, and to tell her that he would consider her offer.”

 

“What would’ve happened if he didn’t accept what she offered?”

 

“Then this would be a very short story.”

 

“No, but… would Nalir still have returned to the forge? That could be why there are differing accounts on what she apparently gave him, if she tried more than once…”

 

The curve that’d been playing about Thorin’s lips took a definite downturn. “The Sunbeard was a Dwarf of honour. She would not have persisted in presenting her suit if Broll had definitively refused her. There is a difference between determination and deliberately ignoring the wishes of another.”

 

Bilbo bowed his head. “I meant no insult.” It was a pity that more _Hobbits_ didn’t know that; he’d witnessed many a wooing that turned sour when one Hobbit didn’t know how to take ‘no’ as an answer.

 

Thorin touched his sleeve. “I did not mean to snap.”

 

"Will you continue? I was – I am enjoying your story.”

 

“Of course.”

 

The courtship between Broll and Nalir was not the first of Dwarvish history, this had been explained to Bilbo quite well. But as the tale continued, he could see why it was considered the paradigm. The two Dwarves were different as different could be and yet overcome this in the two-and-a-half years of their courtship. More than that, it had started with love on one side and less than friendship on the other.

 

Perhaps most importantly was the fact that Broll was Nalir’s One, but the converse was not true. Yet the love that grew was true and unshakeable. Bilbo could not deny being a little encouraged by that – if Thorin was indeed his One – despite the impossibility of the same arising between Thorin and him.

 

He needed to stop that line of thought. “I did not think that dancing would be part of courtship. I mean, you did explain last night,” Bilbo said, before Thorin could reply, “that is it part of the process, but why exactly?”

 

“It is similar to the inclusion of combat – the two require skill with footwork. Both teach the suitor and their partner how the other moves and how to move _together_.” Thorin licked his lips before adding, voice low, “But you agree that dancing is more intimate than drawing weapons against each other… yes?”

 

“Y-yes, I do.” Bilbo clenched his fists to stop his hands from reaching out. The way Thorin caressed the word ‘intimate’ did _things_ to him and he had to tamp his impulses.

 

The smile he was given did not exactly help matters. Thank goodness Thorin continued speaking without prompting.

 

Hobbits were obviously more sensible when it came to courtship (admittedly in more ways than that). Dwarves had to go through very many steps. This included two instances of exchanging gifts; the first time, the partner would make their request before the suitor. The second time was obviously the reverse.

 

The gifts didn’t have to be physical; towards the end of their courtship Nalir took Broll’s hand and asked that he go on a quest.

 

She did not specify what the purpose of his quest should be – it would be up to him to decide – because the true value of this request was that Broll had never before ventured outside the mountains they called their home. Nalir made it clear then that if he chose to decline, she would not hold him to it – but Broll wanted nothing more than to prove himself to the Dwarf that had captured his heart so thoroughly. He kissed her fingers and made his request of her – and on the morrow, shouldered a pack and left his home.

 

When he returned months later, it was with the pelt of a great bear (and an impressive collection of scars), fashioned into a coat that fit Nalir perfectly.

 

That night, as was requested, Nalir unbound her hair for him and let it fall loose around her face and shoulders and down her back, making her look like the sun itself. If it was possible for Broll to fall even more in love with her, it happened then.

 

Looking up at Thorin and the way moon- and starlight caught silver strands in a sea of dark, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel the same. This Dwarf he had fallen in love with was full of flaws and perfections, same as everyone else, and yet he enchanted Bilbo like no other. For months Bilbo had been dreaming of him without knowing it.

 

He had succeeded in his aim; he’d found his Dwarf. Only, now that he had, Bilbo thought he might prefer the dreams. Intangible as they were, the yearning the awakened had been under control. Now Thorin was literally before his eyes and it would be so _easy_ to reach out to him, but…

 

But.

 

Bilbo returned to the velvet of Thorin’s voice. It was safer to get lost in Dwarvish history though he might have immersed himself too deeply, because it took him a long moment to realise that Thorin had stopped speaking.

 

To cover this awkwardness, he meant to ask – well, actually, he did not know what to ask, he just hoped that something relevant and coherent would come out of his mouth. Luck was on Bilbo’s side, though, and he was saved the trouble.

 

He and Thorin listened to the horn of Erebor’s clock, muted since they were outside the Mountain, counting the eleven bell tolls that followed. The last hung in the air between them until there was nothing but silence and the unsaid words trapped behind Bilbo’s teeth.

 

“You must leave soon,” Thorin said. Bilbo thought he imagined reluctance, but surely Thorin’s tone was too quiet for such a thing. “Before you do, I must ask…”

 

“Yes?” Bilbo forced himself to phrase the syllable as a question – even if he wanted it to be blind agreement, common sense be damned.

 

“You know the theme for tomorrow.”

 

“Yes. The last day.” It sounded so final. He pushed away all thoughts of the day _after_ that and all that it would bring. Or rather, the transformation it would _not_ bring. “You told me that there would be lanterns as big as trees and more colourful than a thousand rainbows. And you told me there would be…” Bilbo raised his eyes to Thorin’s. “You said there would be dancing.”

 

“I did –” Thorin’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I did. If you are willing…”

 

In Thorin’s pause, Bilbo blurted, “I am willing.”

 

This didn’t look to reassure or discourage. “If you are willing, may I dance with you tomorrow?”

 

 _Yes please_ , he almost said. He gripped his hands tightly together. If he threw his arms around Thorin’s neck and kissed him – well, he knew it’d not be welcome, so he wouldn’t. “If it is my first, then yes. Yes.”

 

Thorin’s smile was a sunrise cresting a hill. Perhaps a beam of light shining off the edge of a diamond, if he was inclined to try Dwarvish descriptors. Or moonlight reflecting off pools of silver.

 

Right, maybe he was getting a little carried away.

 

But that should not have been so surprising. He was filled with his love for Thorin and nothing was going to stop him from going to the ball tomorrow and dancing properly with his One – not even the prospect of it being the last time he could ever dance – or be with – Thorin.

 

“I shouldn’t delay you.” Thorin straightened – Bilbo blinked when this made clear how close Thorin’s face had been to his. “I would like to accompany you to the gate.”

 

“No, no,” Bilbo said immediately. “I don’t want to be trouble.” Before Thorin’s smile had the chance to dim – to be more accurate, before Bilbo could _imagine_ that happening – he added, “But I can spare a few more minutes here.” _For you_.

 

Thorin’s eyes were warm. “Then perhaps we can go through all the words you have learned so far,” he said, slotting his thick fingers together. “Begin from yesterday’s…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluh. This is ages in the making - but good news is that the climax is coming and I've a very good idea (and gotten everything mostly written) of what's going to happen. And I _really_ want to share it, so no worries about this being completed, okay? *pats you all*
> 
> Thanks to alkjira for being patient and clever.
> 
> P.S. the story of Nalir and Broll is from my fic [The Courting Habits of the Line of Durin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/725630), some parts completely lifted from the damn thing. It's one of my first fics for this fandom, and though I'm a bit iffy on the characterisation now that I look back on it, it still is something I'm proud of.
> 
> The bit about the Trolls is indeed taken partially from the book (the bit where Thorin sticks a flaming, er, stick in Bert's eye) and partially from the movie (when Bilbo is telling the story to the Hobbitlings at his party). Of course, in Bilbo's version of this, it's a lady Hobbit and the company is made up of more than just Dwarves.
> 
> I think I got everything. If there's anything I missed or is confusing lemme know. And if you liked the chapter, let me know as well owo


	14. 7.1 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven: Lantern lights and Dancing.
> 
> Thorin contemplates what is about to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: a hopeless buffoon of a Dwarf king.

“My King.”

 

“Allira.” Thorin eyed the stack of parchment she held. (‘Stack’ might have been putting it mildly.) “Please tell me all of that can wait for a later date.” Paperwork was a necessary evil, and while Thorin did not like shirking his duties, he’d planned on spending the day differently.

 

“Unfortunately not.” Allira was Thorin’s personal scribe – _she_ had taken up the offer to live in the royal wing, Thorin thought mulishly. She had pale skin and chose to colour her hair. Today it was in two plaits, at their thickest point wider than Thorin’s wrists. She placed her burden onto a corner of the desk. “But these missives are repetitions of each other, so I don’t see this taking an overly long time.”

 

“Good.” Pause. “I think.” He put his pen nib away. “What do you mean, repetitions?”

 

“Other than the penmanship and choice of words,” Allira picked one from the top, written on heavy, embossed vellum, “they are all requests for dances.”

 

“Ah.” He’d completely forgotten. Or, no, that wasn’t true. This was not the first Durin’s Week during which he received such invitations. He was quite aware that he would be dancing tonight. He had just neglected to include anyone other than Bobil in that equation. But even if he and Bobil had never met – a possibility that filled him with dread, no matter how farfetched – Thorin rather thought his answer would be the same. “Reject the offers.”

 

“All of them?” It should be noted that there was no surprise in Allira’s voice. She was merely asking for confirmation.

 

Hmm. How much did she _know_? Given her earlier statement on expecting this meeting being a short one, Thorin was willing to wager the entirety of his not-inconsiderable winnings from Nori that she was aware of Bobil and his impact on Thorin.

 

At least she had tact enough to refrain from teasing. Several people close to Thorin might do well to learn the same.

 

“All of them,” Thorin said, before the silence between them stretched too long. “Though you’ll have to put it more…”

 

“Diplomatically? I have had ample practice since working for you, my King.”

 

So much for lack of teasing. Thorin supposed he should be grateful since she hadn’t referenced Bobil. “I was going to use the word [frilly].”

 

The lift and drop of her shoulder clearly conveyed a ‘As you say’, and in a very dismissive fashion. “Also, here is your updated schedule for the next week.”

 

His initial moue of annoyance dissipated into confusion. “I’ve no appointments tomorrow?”

 

“I rearranged everything so you could have time to yourself.”

 

Thorin searched her face, trying to see if she was hinting at a certain Dwarf and how obvious Thorin’s feelings were towards said Dwarf. Even if she was, he couldn’t say that he didn’t appreciate her efforts.

 

“It gives me time to myself, as well.”

 

“You could take the day off, without going through all this trouble.”

 

“And be forced to corral a myriad of replacements? I thank you, but no.”

 

He laughed. “Is that all?”

 

“Yes.” Allira eyed the parchment she’d brought in. “Are you sure you do not want to go through these, O’ King?”

 

She was likely asking because there were probably requests from high standing members of society, but the prospect of dancing with his One trumped any possibility of insult dealt to some self-important so-and-so. Inwardly, Thorin chuckled. There was a reason why Allira would be handling the responses. “I am sure.”

 

“Very well. Have a good day, sire.”

 

“A moment.”

 

Allira turned on her heel, miraculously without dropping a thing. “Yes, my King?”

 

“How much work do you do, normally?”

 

She managed to look highly suspicious by lifting only one eyebrow. “Enough to fill my time.”

 

“No, I meant, the sum of the work you do, what is the nearest equivalent in terms of other scribes?”

 

“Am I to be replaced?”

 

“No!” That was a horrifying prospect – not just the idea of no longer being able to depend on her, but the scolding he’d no doubt receive from Ori. “It was just a conversation I had with Ori. He mentioned needing innumerable of scribes to replace one who’s moving away.”

 

“Vorra,” Allira replied, nodding knowingly. (Thorin briefly wondered if they two were related somehow.) “She’s known for being prolific, it must be said.”

 

“And are you the same?”

 

She shrugged. “Sometimes yes. Other times no.”

 

Was she just being modest? “You will have time enough to complete this and ready yourself for tonight’s festivities, yes?”

 

“Of course. I will have time enough to visit a friend, as well.” A grin. “I am not the one who has to _deliver_ the replies.”

 

He chuckled. “Too true.”

 

“Farewell, my King.”

 

“You as well, Allira.”

 

“I do hope your friend will enjoy himself tonight.” She giggled at his scowl, bobbed a quick bow, and left.

 

Thorin grumbled under his breath. Did _no one_ respect him?

 

* * *

 

After lunch with his nephews – who, rather disturbingly, did _not_ pester him about or even mention Bobil –, Thorin ventured to the more secluded areas of the royal wing. He intended to visit his garden.

 

It had been a gift to his grandmother, and of all her grandchildren, only Thorin had enough patience to tend to it. Well, he claimed it was patience – Dís called it a startling capacity for dullness and Frerin said he was finally realising his true potential as a massive bore. Thorin was usually amused in response, as he could remember what had happened when they had first used such descriptors within the hearing of their grandmother.

 

He had already changed into special soft-soled boots to prevent from overly disturbing the obsidian gravel underfoot. The garden was divided by a ‘river’ of aquamarines that cut through it, following a zig-zag pattern that sloped at the end into a pond. A bench overlooked said pond, and the water was clear and shallow enough that the cut stones at its bed could clearly be seen, facets catching lamplight.

 

Choosing one of the many rakes arranged by the eastern wall, Thorin set to work. He raked shimmering blue stones so that they resembled ripples. The gentle clinks were relaxing, as was the raking itself. Creating perfectly parallel grooves was an art form, his grandmother had said, given the texture of the small, rounded gems, and took no small amount of concentration.

 

After so many years tending to the garden, Thorin was able to let his mind wander while he raked. It was not surprising that his thoughts turned to Bobil.

 

The most mysterious Dwarf Thorin had ever met, his newest friend, his One. He was a big part of the reason why Thorin was visiting the rock garden today; he was counting down the hours until they were in each other’s company again, and working on the garden would hopefully make time pass by more quickly.

 

Oh, how he longed to gaze upon hazel eyes and gold-brown hair. He wished to watch the nervous flutter of Bobil’s fingers and the way he twitched his nose without thinking. He wanted to be the cause of joyous laughter (but not the recipient of a sarcastic tone, though it wasn’t truly a hardship). And… though embarrassing to admit even in the privacy of his head, Thorin desired the slide of Bobil’s touch on the inside of his wrist, just as he desired another glance at Bobil’s wrist.

 

He shivered.

 

Thorin had already decided to tell Bobil the whole truth tonight. That, and a hair bead from his own collection, would be his gift to mark the end of Durin’s Week. Hopefully it would not also signify the end of their friendship.

 

Ah, if only Thorin had not been King. He did not mean to cast aside the crown – his sense of duty was deeper than that – but if he’d been born out of the royal line, then the solutions to his problems would be more easily achieved. He’d be able to move to Mannarill without (too many) consequences and there spend time with Bobil. They could even live together in one of those Hobbit burrows – it would still count as living underground, and so living without the Mountain wouldn’t be too jarring a situation.

 

He would be able to ply his trade there, as well. He could even do as Bobil had suggested, making cooking utensils and the like. He was sure that there were forges in the town and he could apprentice under the master of one to learn the appropriate techniques. Mayhap Bobil could tag along to see if he had any flair for metalsmithing. It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t; Thorin was more than willing to support Bobil in his choice of trade, whatever it happened to be.

 

And being in Mannarill meant it’d be easy to visit his friends and family, and vice versa. He had no doubt that they would be happy for him – since they’d already expressed this happiness these past few days – and that they would love Bobil.

 

To introduce them to Bobil in batches would be best – but it would also be impossible. Dís and Frerin were only holding back until the end of Durin’s Week, i.e. until tomorrow. After that, Thorin was sure he’d be hounded. His siblings were not above bribery and would therefore quickly enlist the aid of Víli, Fíli, and Kíli… and Mahal knew who else. Dáin would probably need no bribe or threat; he’d happily delve into Thorin’s private life with nary a care.

 

Thorin shuddered. Maybe he was lucky to have had Bobil to himself for as long as he had.

 

Now that he thought about it, Bobil would be capable of holding his own. The only thing that could potentially be a blemish was his lack of Khuzdul knowledge, but Thorin could explain that away. (It would be useful for Fíli and Kíli, in any case, as they needed any opportunity shoved at them to practice their Westron.)

 

Thorin hoped Bobil would enjoy meeting his family, whether or not in an alternate universe where they were not royal. Given what he knew of Bobil’s family – that is to say, what he had guessed at – Bobil would benefit from forging close relationships with his own kin.

 

Suddenly realising that his grip was too stiff and he’d ruined his latest set of ripples, Thorin flipped the rake and smoothened the offending patch of aquamarines. He restarted.

 

If Bobil lived with Thorin and spent time with Thorin’s friends and relatives, then that could only be a good thing. It would mean he’d be away from his own ‘home’. Thorin’s most solid theory was that Bobil belonged to a family who were unkind and most likely abusive.

 

The signs were all there. First and most obvious was Bobil’s alarm every night when the eleventh hour tolled. He was either under a strict curfew or was sneaking out of his home; this fear of being caught out enough to blind Bobil to all else enough to cause his and Thorin’s first meeting.

 

That Bobil wore the same clothes night after night, and with no ornamentation whatsoever… Durin’s Week was a time for Dwarves to – well, not show off, precisely, but to display all they had for their own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others. In Bobil’s case, those clothes may well have been the best he owned, despite the simplicity in design. It was even possible that Bobil had nothing else that could be considered ‘nice’, had nothing that wasn’t ‘useful’, had nothing gifted to him.

 

Could it even be that he had borrowed those clothes without permission? That might go some way in explaining his anxiousness to return to his home, and return the clothes to their real owner.

 

And what of Bobil’s lack of knowledge of his own culture? He knew nothing of Dwarves save what Thorin had taught him so far. Worst of all, he’d been deprived of Mahal’s greatest gifts – he had no true name, and no knowledge of their language. Not for the first time, Thorin wondered just what kind of people were capable of such wilful spite.

 

Despite his growing agitation, Thorin managed to finish his work on the aquamarines. He swapped his rake for another, this one with prongs that were further apart and sturdier. The areas of the garden were described by their relation to the aquamarine river; the parts on either side of it, and the spot by the pond that was perfect for contemplation.

 

On the left side of the river were showcased rocks and minerals that Thorin’s grandmother had found striking and aesthetically pleasing. Thorin had added to this collection; the latest was a specimen of azurite growing along sprays of malachite. He used the rake to draw three concentric circles through the small chunks of obsidian that formed the garden’s floor, around each feature.

 

The right side of the river was where the crystal garden was. Thorin slipped on a pair of clean, waxed gloves. Such protection was important when handling growing crystals; not because of risk of poisoning when in contact with bare skin, but to prevent introduction of contaminants.

 

Not to say that foreign bodies were always unwanted, seeing as the presence of a ‘seed’ would facilitate crystal growth and reduce crystallisation time. An important phase in culturing crystals – but only when starting the process. When it came to coaxing patterns from a larger arrangement, any Dwarf worth their basalt knew that new seeds were to be introduced at specific sites at specific times in order to produce the desired effect.

 

He checked his calcite and selenite first, deciding to chip off some of the latter with a small chisel and hammer, as it was not growing quite as he wanted. The other crystals looked to be in good shape and soon enough Thorin came to the focal (and the most valuable) part of the garden. It had been found during his grandfather’s reign and was the whole reason for the garden’s construction.

 

Thror had called it the Arkenstone. It was unlike anything Thorin had ever seen before; iridescent and colourful, seeming to glow from within. In all the world it was found only here, in Erebor. Attempts to cultivate new formations from the parent vein had been unsuccessful.

 

Usually he would be utterly entranced in its presence, but today he found it lacking. It was beautiful, yes, but not _beautiful_ , not the same way Bobil was. It did not have gold hair or clever eyes or a sharp sense of humour or sun-browned skin. It was cold and unfeeling where Bobil was everything but, and so Thorin only spared it a cursory glance to glean whether it needed pruning. It did not, so he moved away, crossing a small bridge (that took him over the aquamarine river) and sat on the bench by the pond’s edge.

 

He put his tools and gloves on the seat beside him.

 

Should he tell Bobil of his feelings first, or of his status as King? “Choosing between a fire and a frying pan,” Thorin murmured to himself, rubbing his palms together. Both had their pros and cons, though in his mind all he could think of were the ways they could go wrong.

 

Admitting his love for Bobil might lead to rejection and Bobil would leave without knowing that Thorin was not who he said he was. On the other hand, exposing the fact that he was King might lead to Bobil leaving, and leaving before Thorin could follow up with his declaration – and even if he was able to confess, would Bobil be able to believe him?

 

But. Being King was an essential facet of Thorin’s life, and loving Bobil was growing to be one as well. He would not be able to keep either of them to himself for much longer, and he did not want to. Bobil deserved better.

 

Perhaps it was arrogant to think that he would be the one to fulfil what Bobil deserved, but it was not incorrect. In a favourable world, Bobil would accept Thorin’s feelings and agree to stay by his side. Then Thorin could and would offer him all in his capacity as King and husband. Bobil would likely need time to adjust – as things would be very different as a Consort to what they had been all his life.

 

Thorin vowed to support Bobil during that transition, and to help to make that transition shorter – but only _if_ Bobil accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *winces at the length of time it took to get this out* I am sorry it took so long to update. Funnily enough, it was my request for smut prompts that got my writing back so... whoo smut \o/
> 
> Crystals can be grown by dangling a crystal seed (which is just a tiny piece of crystal) in its saturated salt solution *nods* Sounds cool, I might do it when I'm next on holiday.
> 
> Next chapter is my absolute FAVOURITE chapter. I hope you guys will like it. Let me know what you liked about this one!
> 
> Allira is totally a cameo for alkjira. She, as always, is fabulous for putting up with my whinery.


	15. 7.2 - Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven: Lantern lights and Dancing.
> 
> Bilbo arrives at the ball, he and Thorin dance, and there are confessions before midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None.
> 
> Bilbo's outfit: [[HERE](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/image/105425933721)] by ewebean.

Bilbo had decided that Wizards were more trouble than they were worth, besides being far too cheeky for their own good.

 

All he had wanted was different clothes. After all, what would people think of him if he went to tonight’s ball in the same clothes he’d been wearing since the first day? (Though, fine, he was more concerned with what Thorin would think of him if he did so. Never mind what Thorin already thought of him.)

 

“Just look at this, Gandalf!” he’d said, throwing open his clothes closet. “What sensible Dwarf would wear these? I’ve nothing for tonight!” Then he’d gone to his second closet. “Look at this!”

 

Gandalf had given him a distinctly pitying look before holding up a hand to forestall any more of what he later described as ‘hysteria’. “I have a solution.” He’d then, with more control than he usually had, conjured new clothes. The bad side to this was that it involved thwacking Bilbo on the head twice. The good side was that the results were _gorgeous_.

 

Bilbo now wore a yellow undershirt, with a beautiful metal coat of what seemed like white firelight. The belt with its acorn buckle was still there, and accents on his new overtunic matched it. The tunic was the same green as Bag End’s door and Bilbo despaired a little that he’d never be able to wear it again.

 

He’d need to place an order from Daffodil and Millie – some time in the future, when he could stand being out in public (and amongst Dwarves) again.

 

Pushing away such thoughts, Bilbo had stroked the metal coat. “This is beautiful, but I’ll be seen a mile away.” Especially by certain people who were magpie-like in their insistence on pinching shiny things.

 

“Never fear!” With an unnecessary flourish, Gandalf produced a cloak from thin air.

 

Bilbo, despite himself, had been impressed. But that had quickly been replaced by annoyance. Why hadn’t Gandalf given him the cloak on the first day, when it would have been useful?

 

“If you’d rather not have it –”

 

He had grumbled, but he’d taken the cloak all the same.

 

“I should warn you that this outfit is more temporary than what you’ve been wearing the past few days.”

 

Pausing in the middle of pulling on the cloak – which was voluminous and drab – Bilbo had stared and then sighed. “…that means I’m going to be left naked at midnight, aren’t I?”

 

Instead of laughing or disagreeing outright, Gandalf had said, “Well, you’ll be at home by that time, so I see no problem.”

 

But that was then.

 

Stepping into Erebor, Bilbo forgot completely about the trials and tribulations of being friends with a Wizard. He was swept away – not wholly figuratively – by what was around him. Even Thorin’s detailed descriptions were not enough to adequately illustrate all that was before him.

 

There were some giant candles dotted about the hall, but the biggest change was the replacement of the chandeliers with equally large lanterns. He’d never seen their like before. The glass of each was multi-coloured and faceted; now that he thought about it, they were probably jewels rather than glass, and the inner light source shone through and was scattered into even more colours.

 

The only things more colourful were the Dwarves present, dressed in bright and dark clothes. They’d made even more of an effort for this last night, with complicated hairstyles held with pins and beads, overflowing with jewels and precious metals.

 

If there was anyone wearing the same white metal he was, Bilbo did not see them. It was either a very cheap material or a very expensive one, especially going by the stares he attracted when he took his cloak off. He put it on one of the long tables and decided to forget about it; he wasn’t going to use it after this, even if it wouldn’t disappear at midnight.

 

How aggravating that his need to leave before twelve was even more heightened on this day, when he wanted to spend the maximum amount of time in Erebor. He did not fancy being one naked Hobbit amongst a sea of Dwarves, so Bilbo set out through the crowd, ignoring and ignorant of the looks he accrued.

 

He saw Thorin before Thorin saw him.

 

His undershirt was the same colour as his eyes. The tunic he wore was a deeper blue and over it a coat with fur lining. As he came closer, Bilbo noted that what he’d thought of as elaborate stitching was actually armour. Scale armour, to be more precise; geometric plates that fit together so well they moved like silk.

 

The belt he wore had a buckle similar to Bilbo’s own, though it was made of silver and gold, as well as detailing in blue stone. It cinched the waist of his armour and tunic and matched the shining buckles on his boots.

 

He looked beautiful, becoming more so when he caught sight of Bilbo; it might have had something to do with his open expression and the happiness that shone through despite only the smallest of smiles playing around his mouth. Now that he was so near, Bilbo could see that he still wore the same braids though his beads had been replaced with silvery white ones, the same lustre as Bilbo’s coat. There was also a circlet atop his head; again that sparkling metal twisted together with gems studded at every intersection, translucent white stones ribboned with blue or red or sometimes green.

 

“Moonstone,” Thorin said, catching his gaze.

 

“They look like moonlight,” he agreed. He wanted to touch but fear held him back, fear that his fingers would ‘slip’ and slide over Thorin’s temple and into his hair. Better to clench his hands by his sides.

 

“ _Mithril_.” Thorin gestured to Bilbo’s coat, fingers only breaths away from brushing his chest, and Bilbo instinctively stilled. “Where did you get this shirt?”

 

“It was a gift. My friend gave it to me today.”

 

Something flickered across Thorin’s face, too quickly to discern. “Friend?”

 

“Family friend. In fact…” Bilbo thought about how Gandalf was both nosy and stubborn. “More family than friend.”

 

“It suits you very well. And…” He hesitated. “I have something that will match it, to… to put in your braid.” Thorin fiddled with a pouch on his belt, drawing out a clasp much like the ones in his own dark hair. It was beautifully made, laced through with enough bright gold to highlight the white silver.

 

He didn’t wait for any sort of response, quickly positioning the clasp as he’d stated. Bilbo was for the first time glad that his ears were rounded and not Hobbity; the brush of Thorin’s fingers against the pointed shell would have elicited a very embarrassing reaction.

 

As it was, Bilbo’s cheeks had grown hot, and his panicked attempt to change the subject was only a little embarrassing. “You didn’t teach me how to dance.”

 

“We didn’t have the time,” Thorin protested with a smile. “I shall do it tonight. It is not too difficult.”

 

“Of course you’d say that. You know it.”

 

“I promise you, Bobil, it is not difficult. You’ll take to it just as you have all the things I’ve taught you.” He held out a hand. “All you need is a willing heart.”

 

Oh, Bilbo’s heart was _more_ than willing.

 

It took the first strains of music and an accompanying hush of Khuzdul chatter for Bilbo to realise that he’d been standing with his hand in Thorin’s for a few minutes now, with a likely-besotted expression. He’d clearly made up for the extreme embarrassment he’d avoided earlier.

 

Thorin either didn’t notice this (entirely likely) or (surprisingly tactfully) didn’t wish to call attention to it, and tightened his fingers around Bilbo’s as they moved to the centre of the hall with other dance-couples. They were but petals amongst a meadow of wildflowers, but all Bilbo had eyes for was Thorin.

 

Bilbo didn’t know how much of a fool he looked, only that it was less than if he’d not had Thorin guiding him, explaining each step of the dance, voice low and more melodic than the string- and wind-instruments playing in the background. Thorin’s prediction had been right, and it wasn’t long before Bilbo stopped the constant glancing at the position of his feet.

 

He was more than a little proud of this, seeing as it had only been a week ago that he’d been tripping over his toes.

 

It was easy to lose track of time. Bilbo found that he could not care. They moved as one, stepping and twirling, hands clasped together or gently touching a hip or shoulder – dancing and dancing and dancing. Nothing existed outside of Thorin and the painful beat of Bilbo’s heart.

 

At least, not until his tummy rumbled. Loudly.

 

Bilbo flushed and Thorin laughed, not unkindly. He again led Bilbo away by his hand this time in search of food and ale, to regain energy and sate their thirst. Rightly concentrating on eating, Bilbo did not notice that everyone who approached Thorin was warned off with a silent headshake. He also did not notice that anyone who approached _him_ stepped away when they saw the clasp shining in his hair.

 

That wasn’t to say that _Thorin_ didn’t notice.

 

“The air is a little close in here,” he said. “I’d like to stretch my legs.”

 

Bilbo was more than a little reluctant – he liked dancing but more than that liked the excuse to hold Thorin close and be held closely by Thorin in the little time they had left. But whether they left the hall for a little or a long while, he would still be spending time with Thorin, and that was not a hardship.

 

The path they took was unfamiliar but easy to memorise, consisting mostly of long flights of stairs made of glittering granite. Up and up and up they went, until they finally reached a large balcony. Thorin’s smile was encouraging and Bilbo went to the balustrade, and –

 

He gasped.

 

This balcony did not lead outside the Mountain. Instead it overlooked buildings, walkways, staircases, bridges; overlooked the walls that were either carved or polished or left raw; overlooked the many levels lit bright and the dark shadows of the depths that lay beyond – the kingdom of Erebor, vast and magnificent beyond the ken of any Hobbit (temporarily Dwarf-shaped or not).

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“It’s beautiful.” He looked up at Thorin who was now standing beside him. “I mean, everything I have seen, everything you have shown me has been beautiful. But this…” Bilbo trailed off, biting his tongue before he admitted that even the splendour of Erebor could not compare with Thorin.

 

“We are at the edge of the Mountain. Directly below us is the main gate. That is how we can see most everything.”

 

Bilbo rested his hands on the sculpted top rail but did not try to crane over to see the gates. He was not necessarily afraid of heights but he wasn’t going to chance toppling over and falling down, down, down, down. Self-preservation overruled his curiosity… at least in this instance.

 

“Do you often visit this place?” he asked and, before he could stop there, added, “With other people?”

 

“Not often,” Thorin replied. “But I thought you might like it.”

 

“I do.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

The sounds of the Mountain – the music, the talking, the dancing – were all but muted from this vantage point. Thorin moved to lean his side against the railing so he was turned towards Bilbo and oh-so close besides. Bilbo tried to focus on his fingers as they traced repeating designs.

 

“Do you like my gift?”

 

“Yes, I –” Horror stole Bilbo’s gratitude. “I do not have anything for you, I didn’t even think –”

 

“Peace.” Thorin had cupped Bilbo’s elbow. “That you wear it is gift enough.”

 

Hesitating, he shifted in place. “Does it – the clasp, does it carry… a meaning?”

 

“Such clasps can.” If Thorin wasn’t quite so regal in bearing, what he did next could have been described as ‘squirming’. He looked out over Erebor. “But only if you wish that it be so.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It is something of a…” Head still turned away, he frowned. “I’m not certain there is a word in Common for this but this clasp suggests that you may be…”

 

Bilbo unconsciously leaned towards him. “Yes?”

 

Thorin met their gazes. His pale blue eyes ruthlessly cut into Bilbo’s hazel ones. “That you may be spoken for.”

 

Quite without him allowing it, Bilbo’s heart beat more quickly, spurred on by the hope that blossomed within him. “Am I spoken for?” He had to be sure. He had to _know_.

 

Thorin grasped Bilbo’s shoulders, simultaneously firm and gentle. He moved Bilbo so they properly faced each other. His hands were warm, so very warm.

 

“If you wish it,” he repeated. And then: “ _I_ wish it.”

 

Bilbo only just stopped himself from gaping. This… perhaps he was dreaming. “I…”

 

“You are so beautiful, Bobil,” Thorin said, voice quietly impassioned. His hold on Bilbo did not loosen, his thumbs (absently? deliberately?) stroking to and fro. “Not only today. I’ve thought of no one else but you since we first met – even when I did not know you, and you did not know me.”

 

 _Not a dream_ , Bilbo thought. No, he could not be dreaming. The Thorin of his imaginings would not have looked so nervous.

 

“You are my One. My One.”

 

Oh.

 

“I hope –” Thorin broke off, pausing to gather his thoughts. “Either I am yours or I am not, but I cannot stop my hope, foolish or no, since you danced with me tonight; my hope that you might love me in return. But whatever your choice, I will respect it. I do not regret the time I’ve had with you. Not one moment.”

 

Bilbo was in shock. His thoughts had screeched to a stop, only Thorin’s words echoing in his mind, circling and surrounding until there was only a terrific rushing sound that made him want to scream. He wasn’t sure he was breathing.

 

Bilbo’s attention was pulled to the present at a soft sound from Thorin. “Please say something,” he said, and lifted one hand to Bilbo’s face.

 

Thorin touched his cheek gently, and Bilbo determinedly didn’t close his eyes for fear that tears would slip through and track down his face. He _knew_ this touch; he had dreamt of it, had yearned for it for weeks and months. Thorin was his One, and Bilbo had only hours, minutes left to be with him.

 

“You shouldn’t.”

 

Thorin was taken aback, but he did not move away. He did not remove his hands. “Bobil?”

 

“You shouldn’t say that you lo – that I’m your One. You shouldn’t –”

 

“I shouldn’t? Whyever not? It is the truth. I love you, Bobil, simple as that.” Instead of being insulted and angry, Thorin looked hurt. That was worse. “But if you do not feel the same, then as I said, I will accept it.”

 

“That’s not it at all, I –”

 

This was immediately seized upon. “Then why do you ask me to put my feelings aside?”

 

“Thorin, I –”

 

Now another hand came up to Bilbo’s other cheek, framing his face. Pale eyes gazed down at him searchingly. “Bobil, please. I know there are things between us that are unsaid; there are things you have not told me, and things I have not told you. But I will not let my feelings be one of them. I swear that I will give you nothing but the truth, and it starts with my love for you.”

 

Bilbo didn’t know what to say. Although he’d hoped to find his dream-Dwarf, actually finding him had not _really_ been a thing he thought achievable. Not in his heart of hearts.

 

But here was Thorin, Thorin who apparently loved him, who called Bilbo his One. Thorin who had secrets, but likely none as earth-shattering as Bilbo’s own. Thorin who was just so enchanting, the silver in his hair catching the light of thousands and thousands of candles and torches, and that same light glinting on his circlet and the moonstone –

 

Oh. Oh no.

 

“What’s wrong?” Thorin asked, interrupted from his waxing lyrical by Bilbo’s horrified expression. He tried to grasp Bilbo’s wrists but Bilbo wrenched them away easily thanks to his Dwarvish strength – strength that would leave him soon. Far too soon.

 

The moonstone had reminded him – moonstone, moon, night, midnight. _Midnight_.

 

“I – it’s late. It’s very late.”

 

Thorin laughed a little. “It’s not that late,” he teased. “Only midnight. I know you have left early these past days, but a few more moments would not affect your curfew too much. Surely you don’t despise my company so much that you’d resort to such an excuse.”

 

His return chuckle was weak, but he still backtracked out of Thorin’s reach. “I’m sorry, I have to – I need to leave.”

 

“I rather thought you were enjoying yourself.” There was _no call_ sounding so sad and unsure. Those wide pale eyes were also entirely unfair. “I was.”

 

“I was too. Immensely. I would’ve liked to –” _Stay_ , he almost said. But that was nonsense. If he stayed he’d expose his true self – better Thorin think him rude than know he was a Hobbit (and a liar). “As I said, I need to leave.”

 

“Was it something I said? Or did?”

 

Bilbo shook his head desperately, only just catching himself from falling backwards down the stairs. This momentary distraction allowed Thorin to stride forward and grasp his upper arms – to steady him, perhaps, but definitely to hold him in place.

 

“You’re _shaking_. Please, Bobil, tell me what is wrong. Please.”

 

Desperate, Bilbo surged onto the tips of his booted toes, pressing his lips to Thorin’s. It was less romantic than it could have (should have) been, especially given the way their noses mashed together, but they both shifted enough that their lips aligned properly.

 

Now he could feel _Thorin_ shaking, his hands trembling as he moved them from resting on Bilbo’s arms down to grip his waist.

 

In spite of his original plan, Bilbo was selfish in that he did not pull away after their first kiss. Instead he went back for more, meeting thin lips again and again. Thorin’s mouth opened, and Bilbo took his first (and final?) taste of the Dwarf, trying to savour it. The deep rumble against his chest when he touched their tongues together made Bilbo’s toes curl.

 

The cumbersome boots he had to wear gave him a small boost in height, but even with the extra inch-or-so, craning his neck was giving him a crick. Thorin was entirely too tall but even then Bilbo loved him. He could not deny the thrill at imagining their _real_ size difference, at imagining how that difference could be compensated for by climbing into Thorin’s lap or being hoisted up into his arms.

 

He gave in to temptation and twined his fingers into dark hair. Thorin shuddered and pressed closer.

 

Kissing was not something Bilbo was a stranger to – though he was rather unpractised of late – but kissing Thorin was on a level of its own. He could not stop marvelling at the soft scratch of Thorin’s beard, at the smoothness of his braids, at the deep tone of his quiet moans, at the dark and woody taste of him. This was something Bilbo had dreamed of having, had yearned for but never experienced until now.

 

But all good things had to come to an end, no matter how awaited. This was all he would have with his love, and it would have to sustain him until he died. He hoped he would forget all about Thorin. (He wouldn’t forget.)

 

“I love you,” Bilbo said softly, tearily, and it was enough to shock Thorin into loosening his grip. “ _Zirkhgelekh_.”

 

He freed himself and rushed down the stairs, mercifully not losing his balance and falling.

 

“Don’t follow me!” he called over his shoulder, managing a glance at Thorin’s gobsmacked expression.

 

He ran.

 

* * *

 

All the times before this, Bilbo had managed to leave early enough that his transformation back into his normal shape was safely combined within the walls and behind the green door of Bag End.

 

Not now.

 

He had to deal with all the noise and discomfort of his shape-change as he ran up Bagshot Row. At least the late hour meant most Hobbits were abed – and if anyone was roused by the whiz poppers, he’d have run far enough that no one would know he was the source of them.

 

He was leaving quite a trail. His hair was of course falling off in great clumps; the braid above his ear fell off as a whole. Bilbo only just managed to catch it, and the bead he’d been gifted remained as the braid dissolved and fluttered away. As Bilbo rain, he clenched his hand around the shape of it. It would be the only reminder of Thorin he’d have. Tears stung his eyes. So be it.

 

The pretty _mithril_ coat disappeared into twinkling lights and his belt dropped to his hips, staying up only by virtue of his running. Bilbo realised too late that he hadn’t removed his boots – he knew that they would disappear eventually, but he’d never had them on at the time. And now they were pinching and squeezing more than ever – or more likely his feet were growing to normal size – His running had become pained hobbling and Bilbo was afraid that he’d fall and hurt himself (which would really be the icing on the cake of this very poor situation).

 

But, with a great creak and tear of leather, his feet burst through the boots. It hurt, but the profound relief of no longer being confined was much greater than that brief pain. Bilbo threw off the remains of the boots – tripping a little over his belt – and then ran on, leaving them in the dust to disappear in their own time.

 

* * *

 

Bag End had never felt so empty.

 

He’d gone through the round door with seconds to spare, ending up not quite naked as he still had his trousers on, but certainly not decent for any sort of gallivanting out of home. Or at home, for that matter.

 

Though he really should have run a bath, Bilbo felt too worn out to do so. He’d heat water in the morning and clean himself then. For now he changed into a loose shirt and shouldered into his dressing gown as he waited for water in his kettle to boil. After having some tea (and perhaps some cake) he would change into his nightshirt and (try to) go to sleep.

 

He stared up at the teas in his pantry, trying to decide if he wanted lavender or chamomile, tapping the strainer against his chin.

 

Bilbo thought that he was doing quite well with his emotions, right until he put his free hand in his pocket. His fingers brushed cool metal, the surface a mixture of smooth and carved, and his stomach dropped.

 

 _This clasp suggests that you may be spoken for. If you wish it._ I _wish it._

 

He was backtracking before he knew it, bumping into one of the shelves by the wall. His knees were suddenly too weak and he slid down to the ground, bottom hitting the terracotta tiles with a thump.

 

Taking his hand out of his pocket and unfolding his fingers revealed, of course, the source of his turmoil.

 

The clasp was big enough to fit around his pointer finger – since he was (forevermore) back to being Hobbity-sized. It was mithril-and-gold, the two metals twisted together and engraved with patterning so tiny that Bilbo would need a glass lens to properly discern its particulars. It was exquisite handiwork. Anyone would be lucky to receive it as a gift. Had it been specially made for tonight? Or – more likely – was it something previously owned and then re-gifted?

 

Bilbo couldn’t help but think of the ‘gift’ he’d given in return, unplanned and unreal. He and Thorin had kissed and it had literally been the stuff of dreams. Bilbo never wanted to touch the lips of another; the way things were now, he doubted he would ever kiss _anyone_ ever again. He wasn’t sure if he regretted that.

 

Closing his eyes, he brought the clasp to his lips, kissing it and trying not to cry.

 

_You are my One. My One._

 

How could he have missed the signs? The fact that the dreams had stopped after he’d met Thorin? The fact that the Dwarf was somehow familiar to him despite being a total stranger? The fact that they shared a connection enough that the world faded away whenever they were together?

 

Bilbo cursed his ignorance as soundly as he cursed his perceptivity; the former because of all the time he had wasted to doubt and dismissal, the latter because if he’d had less of it he’d be happy and unknowing at this moment.

 

_I love you, Bobil, simple as that._

 

Except it wasn’t simple at all. Thorin loved Bobil, not Bilbo.

 

Now Bilbo laughed. Was it possible to be jealous of oneself? Replaying all that had happened earlier, he couldn’t help but feel… _something_ when he recalled every mention of the name ‘Bobil’. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

 

But, if Thorin was in love with Bobil, wasn’t he also in love with Bilbo? They were not different people, not truly. Thorin just thought they were.

 

Or, no, that wasn’t true. Thorin was unaware of Bilbo’s existence, and he would forever be so. Bilbo would never see him again.

 

Impossibly, though, there resided a niggle of hope in Bilbo’s heart. Thorin had called him his One – from what he understood, such a status went deeper than mere falling in love. There was an element of fate involved. That sounded trite, but Bilbo couldn’t help but consider it. What else could explain his dreams? Had they been premonitions? And what about the involvement of actual magic of the transformation?

 

The whistle of the kettle brought him back to the here and now. After another long look at the clasp, Bilbo stowed it back into his pocket and got to his feet. It was time to move on, and to start that, he needed tea.

 

Then came three knocks at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee. This is my FAVE chapter. Did you like it? Tell me what you thought!
> 
> Thanks to alkjira and also to fishydwarrows for their read throughs.


	16. 7.3 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None
> 
> Thanks to alkjira for betaing, and to kaavyawriting for kickstarting me to write again in the first place.

_“Don’t follow me!”_

 

Where had Bobil gone? “Have you seen a Dwarf go past? He was wearing a mithril shirt.”

 

“Your Majesty, I ah –” The Dwarf seemed to catch his impatience, which Thorin admittedly wasn’t bothering to hide. “Towards Hobbiton.”

 

Thorin’s eyebrows did not lift.

 

“That way!” the Dwarf pointed, actually backing up a step.

 

Thorin barely managed a nod before carrying on in the direction indicated. He didn’t run but he hurried in a regal manner – unfortunately successfully impressed upon him by years of familial training. (Dís and Víli were still er, in the process of teaching their unruly sons.) At least there was a single road after the fork he’d been directed down – and as he continued on he could hear…explosions.

 

Explosions? No, in a place with Hobbits, pyrotechnics was unlikely. It had to be fireworks, but why would there be fireworks in such a quiet place? Hobbiton looked like a perfect version of a sleepy town from stories but the addition of fireworks was incongruous. Unless there was a celebration, but there didn’t look to be one from where Thorin stood. So he would have to go further.

 

He put on a little speed, both to find Bobil and the source of the noise all the quicker.

 

A thought crossed his mind of Bobil being the source of the noise – how silly. Just went to show how worried he was, if he was even considering such nonsense.

 

But one main road became branched as more and more of the strange Hobbit ‘smials’, round wooden doors and accompanying windows set into small mounds of earth. Thorin had learned the schematics of such dwellings and could admire the Hobbits’ conservation of what little space they had. Their predilection for rounded edges and curves was not something he understood, however.

 

Thorin soon found himself at a fork and went up what looked like the most likely way – if it was wrong then he’d just double back and take the left. Right?

 

But, inevitably going up a single lane was not as simple as it sounded. Thorin blamed the dark, for all that his night vision was quite good, good enough to keep that large oak tree in sight at all times. It served as a marker in this unfamiliar landscape, so different from everything underground.

 

“You look lost, Mister Dwarf.”

 

Now there was a statement he heard too often. “I am looking…” Thorin’s forehead crinkled. He recognised that voice. “Master Gamgee?”

 

The Hobbit peered at him for a long moment; most likely his eyes were not suited to low light, unlike a Dwarf’s. “Mister King! How nice to see you again.”

 

“And the same to you.” Thorin approached and would have tried for the curious ‘handshake’ practice, except he noticed the bandages. “What happened to your wrist?”

 

“Ah, cart accident, the day we met. Mighty bad luck.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Bit troublesome, but at least this little one is still wee enough that I can carry him with one arm.”

 

Oh. Thorin hadn’t even noticed the little Hobbitling. It was _tiny_ and, despite the fair hair, reminded him of Kíli though it was clear he was infinitely calmer. For one thing, the child was actually asleep. He had his thumb tucked into his mouth and was cradled against Hobson’s chest.

 

“There were some fireworks earlier,” Hobson explained. “Gave the poor lad a terrible fright. My other children can sleep through anything – they get that from their mother.” He chuckled. “I don’t suppose you know where they came from?”

 

“I had heard the noise, but I assumed there was some sort of celebration.”

 

“Not here in Hobbiton. I know the party over in your mountain is supposed to be quite lively but I doubt the sound would travel all the way here.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Perhaps it’s that Gandalf fellow,” Hobson mused, casting his gaze down the lane.

 

“…Gandalf?” What did Tharkûn have to do with anything?

 

“Oh, he’s been visiting around the Shire this week. He’s oft with his whizpoppers but I’d’ve thought that he had enough sense not to set them off so late.”

 

“I’m not so sure sense is one of his strong points.”

 

“You know him too, eh? Nice enough fellow, as far as Big Folk go, but I don’t doubt that wherever he goes, trouble soon follows.”

 

That was a remarkably apt description of Tharkûn indeed. Thorin would have congratulated Hobson on his sagacity but a soft yawn interrupted him.

 

“Da?”

 

“Hush, Halfred. We’ll get you to bed now.” The lad was already asleep again, head lolling to rest on Hobson’s shoulder. Hobson smiled up at Thorin. “If you’ll be excusing me, Mister King, sir.”

 

Alarm. “Wait, Master Gamgee… Is it… do you know anyone called Bobil who lives nearby?” It was a stretch, Mahal knew that it was highly improbable that this Hobbit knew anything about the Dwarf that Thorin loved but... there was still a possibility. Thorin was _sure_ that Bobil had gone this way.

 

Hobson’s frown did not bode well, though. “Bobil? I can’t say I… hang on a moment.” He muttered the name to himself a few times, as if it reminded him of something. “I think you mean Mister Baggins!”

 

“I… maybe?”

 

“You must mean him. After all, that’s the way you’re headin’. There’s only one more home at the end of this road and it’s Mister Baggins’. It’s got a round green door and there are daffodils right by the front fence, yellow ones I planted myself. Can’t miss it.”

 

“You have been very helpful, Master Gamgee.” Thorin reached across the fence and grasped his shoulder, gently. “Thank you.”

 

“Oh, no worries at all. I’m just glad Mister Baggins is making friends. He’s not quite been the same since his parents passed, bless their souls, and that was years and years ago.” The Hobbitling nestled against his side made a snuffling noise and Hobson stepped back. “I ought to be going. Have a good night, Mister King.”

 

“And you.”

 

“Say hello to Mister Baggins for me!”

 

If this Mister Baggins was indeed Bobil, then certainly. But there was only one way of making sure of that, and after waving goodbye to Hobson, Thorin continued up along the path.

 

He hadn’t gone more than ten steps before he saw something _truly_ horrific.

 

They were boots, lying in a heap. Even though they were broken – shredded, really – it was obvious that they had belonged to Bobil. The ‘acorn’ insignia was not easily confused with anything else, especially considering how much Thorin had studied it. Even worse, they seemed to be amidst what looked like…

 

Thorin crouched in the middle of the path, leaning forward – then, almost immediately he reared back and almost fell onto his arse.

 

It was _hair_. Brown curls that surrounded ruined boots. Bobil’s hair that surrounded his ruined boots.

 

And they formed a trail. Thorin had no choice but to follow.

 

* * *

 

Yellow daffodils. Thorin would have reached out to touch the petals but for the massacred boots in his hands. Instead he unlatched the gate – inwardly frowning at the terrible security, he’d been able to do that with one finger – and stepped into what was hopefully the target destination of his night.

 

If Bobil was not behind the round green door, then Thorin didn’t foresee their paths ever crossing again, whether in another collision or a gentler meeting. Thorin hesitated for only a moment, a flash of everything that could go wrong streaking through his mind, before raising his hand and knocking three times.

 

There was light through the windows, so Thorin at least knew that the home was occupied and the owner likely awake. Still, it took enough time for an answer that he was tempted to knock again or – more tempting – walk away.

 

The door opened.

 

Thorin could admit, objectively, that the Hobbit standing there was quite comely. He had hazel eyes and brown hair that curled over the tips of his pointy ears. He was shorter than Thorin, and wore a simple yellow shirt tucked into brown trousers that came halfway down his shins. And there were his feet in their curly-topped glory, the best and most obvious indicator of his race.

 

Still, despite the similarities to Bobil, Thorin didn’t waste much time on this inspection. Or… he wouldn’t have, except it seemed very strange that a Hobbit would look so very much like –

 

“Where is he?” Thorin demanded, stepping forward. He knew he was intimidating, looming over the Hobbit, and potentially faced a door to his face. But this Hobbit was so clearly a relative of Bobil’s – a relative that could have caused the damage to Bobil’s property (the only he owned?) and to Bobil’s own hair. Thorin could imagine it now, Bobil being intercepted in his escape by his family and punished for leaving the house by having his hair shorn off in the street before forcibly being dragged the remaining distance home. And it was Thorin’s fault, all of it, because he had kept Bobil too long this one night – and in recompense he would regain the honour Bobil had been stripped off.

 

The Hobbit didn’t recoil. “Where is who, sir?”

 

“Your brother,” Thorin spat. “The one who looks so much like you, I would call you twins. The one whose hair decorates the road behind us, the one who danced in _these_.” At the last word he threw the mangled boots to the ground. “Where is Bobil?”

 

A swallow. Nervous? “There is no Bobil here.”

 

“Do not lie to me. You have no idea who I am.” His hand closed on the collar of the Hobbit’s shirt.

 

Nervousness dashed into fear. “Thorin, don’t, just stop –”

 

And Thorin did. “How do you know my name?” He paused, staring down at the Hobbit just inches away from him. Slowly, slowly he saw that those hazel eyes were not similar to Bobil’s but the same. The honey-brown of his hair was the exact shade as in Bobil’s beard. His attractive nose was still button-like and beautiful. These were too many similarities. “Wait, I – _I know you_. Bobil? What – what happened?! I did not want to think your hair truly shorn but –” He released his grip on Bobil’s collar to finger his curls with an expression of horror across his face. “Who has done this to you?”

 

The Hobbit – Bobil, that is – looked nonplussed. “Who has done what to me?”

 

“Your beard is gone. Most of your hair is gone, including the braid I –” Thorin broke off here, fearing the worst. Could Bobil’s family really have stooped so low?

 

Apparently reading the expressions on his face, Bobil quickly fished something from his pocket, unfolding his fingers to reveal the bead that’d been gifted to him earlier.

 

So. This was confirmation that the Hobbit before him was Bobil. But could it instead be that Bobil was half and half? That would explain how he was able to grow a beard but also have curls on his feet. He was – pardon the use of the colloquialism – a ‘Dwobbit’.

 

Dwobbits were rare – existence compounded by the small number of Hobbit-and-Dwarf relationships even able to produce children. And while they were not afforded the same opportunities of learning Khuzdul and other Dwarvish customs, they would have at least been given a true name. Unlike Bobil and his family.

 

“I had considered that you could be a Dwarf raised by Hobbits, ignorant of our culture and tormenting you by keeping you from your true people’s teachings. Instead it is clear that you are a mixed child, and I demand to speak with the Dwarf that you call guardian.”

 

Bobil did no more than blink.

 

Thorin thought he’d been quite clear. But he let Bobil gather his wits as he himself collected his thoughts. He couldn’t deny that he was a little relieved; accidentally teaching Khuzdul to a Dwobbit was less of an offense than teaching it to a Hobbit, say. At least a Dwobbit had some claim to Dwarven culture.

 

Bobil cleared his throat. “No, I – I’m alone here.” He held himself stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. A toad croaked by Thorin’s boot and Bobil sighed. “Won’t you come in? I think we both need a cup of tea.”

 

Frown. Tea? What would tea solve?

 

“And to talk, of course.”

 

That made more sense. Thorin glanced down, then picked up the ruined boots he’d chanced upon. “What… what should I do with your…?”

 

Strangely, Bobil didn’t answer, merely looking down. As Thorin’s gaze followed, he was amazed to see the boots with their still-visible acorn patterning disappear into nothingness – and though he had no way of knowing this was to be the outcome, he did now feel a little foolish for clutching at them with such desperation only moments ago.

 

He looked to Bobil – who was not really a Dwarf? Was a Hobbit? Was… something? – with confusion saturating his entire being, making it feel heavy and his head muddled.

 

Bobil sighed again and stepped backwards, inviting him in. “Tea, I think. And please – please wipe your boots before you come in further.”

 

* * *

  

“Bobil,” said with a bow. “Son of um, son of Bungo.”

 

“I am – I’m the same person you have come to know. Only, I am a Hobbit, not a Dwarf. I am Bilbo, not Bobil.”

 

Thorin closed his hands into fists as a teacup was placed in front of him. He took in the delicate handle, the tiny blue-and-yellow flowers that ran along the outer rim. Clearly the work of Hobbits. “How is this possible?”

 

“Gandalf,” Bo – Bilbo – the Hobbit said simply.

 

So Tharkûn _was_ involved. Thorin didn’t know whether to be surprised or not, so he settled on being resigned. “So he… turned you into a Dwarf?” At the nod this elicited, Thorin asked, “Why? For what purpose or gain would he do so?”

 

“I don’t know.” He drizzled honey into his flowery-smelling tea with enough concentration to suggest he wasn’t telling the truth.

 

“You may not know, but you have some idea.”

 

Hazel eyes caught his sharply. “Mayhap.”

 

“Then tell me.”

 

The Hobbit’s chin was lifted slightly in challenge and Thorin couldn’t help but be reminded of Bobil – but why wouldn’t he be, if this Bilbo and his Bobil were apparently the same person? He almost couldn’t believe it, though, that a Dwarf and a Hobbit could be one and the same. But there was no mistaking the forthright belligerence in Bilbo’s tone. “Who are you to demand such things of me?”

 

Thorin almost blurted out his true title – but what would be the use? What was a King of Dwarves to a Hobbit, really? “Not moments ago we parted as friends.”

 

The Hobbit flushed lightly but did not glance away. “More than friends, I’d’ve thought.”

 

“That was before you betrayed my trust.”

 

A tiny brass spoon clattered onto the varnished table, sending droplets of tea here and there. “ _Betrayed your trust_?”

 

He felt justified even in the face of this outrage. “You let me think you were a Dwarf when in fact you are a Hobbit. There was no effort made to enlighten me otherwise. You created a charade of a character.” _One that I fell in love with._ “Not only that, you let me think that your family was abusing you –”

 

“I did no such thing,” the Hobbit interrupted, cutting. “All I told you was to keep your nose out of my family life, and I’m not entirely sure you did.”

 

If he shifted in his seat, it was not out of guilt.

 

“At any rate, I am an only child, and my parents have passed away. What I told you was true. You came up with your fanciful notions of ‘abuse’ all by yourself.”

 

Thorin leaned away and waved a hand dismissively. “Then what of our lessons? You let me spill the secrets of our – of my people without a care of how many years such things have been kept. You knew how important Khuzdul is to us – to Dwarves. You admitted as much that first time we spoke. And yet you said nothing?”

 

“I tried to stop you from teaching me. You wouldn’t hear it.”

 

“It is my fault you looked for all intents and purposes as a Dwarf? I didn’t know better. Why did you keep coming, if you knew it is forbidden for outsiders to know our language?”

 

“I…,” here the Hobbit… Bilbo’s gaze dropped. He’d retrieved his spoon and now stirred his tea methodically, unnecessarily, for a long moment. The silence was stifling, as if Thorin had been stuffed into the teapot and steam was curling around the crown he still wore. “I came for you.”

 

Bells chimed, and Bilbo was up like – well, like one of his nephews whenever they had an excuse to bolt from the room. It must have been one of those pulley systems to let one know there was a visitor at the door. Thorin must not have noticed it earlier in his... haste.

 

He spared a moment to wonder who would be visiting at this hour. He spared another moment to quash an absolutely ridiculous smidge of jealousy that anyone else would be here tonight. He had no claim to Bilbo, no matter how much his soul sang in his presence - whether Dwarf or Hobbit, it seemed.

 

But how could their relationship be possible? - Quite easily, a voice within him said. Dwarves and Hobbits were not strangers to each other. It would hardly be the first time two of each fell in love.

 

The undeniable truth that Thorin was King, though, that complicated matters as much as the fact that he’d fallen in love with Bobil the Dwarf rather than Bilbo the Hobbit. But were they really so different?

 

Thorin would have to find out, wouldn’t he?

 

“I’m telling you, Hobson, I appreciate your concern but there’s hardly going to be another Dwarf knocking on my door –”

 

There shouldn’t have been any satisfaction elicited by that statement, but it filled Thorin regardless. It was not chased away by surprise when Hobson Gamgee walked in.

 

“Ah, Mister King! Glad to see you found your way.”

 

“You gave excellent directions,” Thorin said, inclining his head. He did not elaborate that those directions had basically been ‘follow the road up to the next house’.

 

Hobson tapped his nose. “The daffodils were key. I just wanted to check you got here in one piece. Thought I heard some raised voices so I was worried you were mistaken. But you weren’t. Good to know.” He smiled, and then patted Bilbo on the shoulder. “I’ll see myself out, lad. Goodnight, Mister King.”

 

“Goodnight, Master Gamgee.”

 

Once both of them heard the door shut, Bilbo turned to Thorin coolly. “ _King_?”

 

Since he was seated, there was no way for Thorin to take a step backwards. Not that he would have if he’d been standing. There was no reason to retreat from a Hobbit, no matter the expression he wore. “Ah, yes, I –”

 

“King.”

 

That wasn’t a question. Thorin stayed silent, since he obviously then didn’t have to answer it.

 

Wrong conclusion. “How did this bit of information disappear from your lessons?”

 

“They would have distracted from said lessons,” Thorin said, feeling a little relieved as he latched on to this line of reasoning. “You were meant to be learning grammar and definitions.”

 

“I wanted to learn more about _you_.”

 

“And I did not shy away from that. You learned of my past, of my family.”

 

“But not of _you_ , not really. Being a King is a big part of who you are Thorin.”

 

“Just as being a Hobbit is a big part of who _you_ are.”

 

Bilbo’s lip twisted. “You had no qualms keeping your identity from me.”

 

“I did not mean to do so. I would have told you but the opportunity never came.”

 

"It must have been very funny."

 

"No, it wasn't, of course it wasn't… I… it is merely that I find it difficult to converse with people who do not treat me as King first and foremost." He stood, using his hands to indicate the relative simplicity of the Hobbit smial in comparison to Erebor, how it was cluttered but lacking in material wealth. There was love in these walls, but not because of pride of work, it was because of all the love that had happened within them.

 

“I told you earlier that there are things between us left unsaid,” Thorin said, quiet, resting one hand by the doorway. “This was one of them. I was going to tell you I am King, only… I wanted to enjoy your company without that information looming over us.”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “And similarly I was also waiting for the moment to reveal my true shape, but… it isn’t exactly something so easily slipped into conversation.”

 

They both laughed here, and if it was a little strained it was still shared laughter. Thorin was able to admire that which he had admired the past few days, the sparkle in hazel eyes and the way Bo – Bilbo’s fingers twitched.

 

Comfortable silence fluttered over them like first snow. They stood… close to each other.

 

Breaking the silence first, looking unsure of his words, Bilbo said, “I’ve been having dreams. For some months, all about the same person.”

 

So that was why he’d been asking… “What were they about?”

 

“About someone who loved me.” Bilbo took a breath. “About you. Not that I knew it at the time, I… it took me a long time to figure out that I was dreaming about a Dwarf instead of a Hobbit.”

 

“That’s why you wished to attend Durin’s Week.”

 

“One of the reasons, yes. It was a feeble hope. I almost didn’t return after the first night once I figured out I could neither speak nor understand your language.”

 

“What made you return?” Thorin asked, though he already knew the answer. But he wanted, needed to hear Bilbo say it.

 

“You did, of course. I didn’t understand at the time but…”

 

Thorin recalled what he himself had said earlier. “You are my One.”

 

Bilbo stepped closer. “Yes.”

 

“We have much still to discuss.”

 

“Oh, yes. A lot with Gandalf in particular. Loud discussion.”

 

A huff of laughter. “And we cannot continue your Khuzdul lessons… at least, not for now.” Perhaps some things needed to be changed, if not in his lifetime then… someday.

 

“Of course.” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “You realise we’ve been courting for about a week, without realising?”

 

“Not… well, not quite.”

 

“I suppose.” The tapping of Bilbo’s finger against his plush lower lip was quite distracting. “Even what we got up to earlier would be considered tame by Hobbit standards.”

 

Thorin flushed, blurting out, “I love you.”

 

“And I love you.” Bilbo stepped closer and put his arms around Thorin.

 

“Bilbo,” he breathed into the space between them, tasting the name and wondering at how _right_ it felt.

 

His One kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This is basically done but there will be an epilogue - but goodness knows when that'll be, since I have other fics I want to concentrate on.   
> But also - this is another fic that'll end up as a series ^_^
> 
> Tell me what you thought!


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None.
> 
> alkjira, as always, is a lifesaver.

Every good Hobbit handjoining needed flowers.

 

There were garlands and wreaths strung and hung here and there, arrangements on each table, dotted amongst the food and drink – sometimes _in_ the food and drink –, and most importantly woven into the tree under which the Hobbits (or Dwarves) were to be wedded.

 

Said couple (though sometimes it was more than two people) would also have flowers about their person. Flowers worn in hair was a must, either in the form of a braided crown or just tucked behind an ear, if one was going for a simpler style. There would also be at least one bouquet in hand.

 

Choice of flowers not only depended on season and availability, but on their meanings. Hobbits had as complex a ‘language’ on flowers as Dwarves did with gemstones. Peonies and orange blossoms in particular were favoured for weddings, for example, while any guest wearing a marigold in their buttonhole would be whispered about and subtly kept away from those to be wed.

 

Bilbo ran this explanation through in his head, silently practising it for when questions would arise about the white catchfly that he held carefully, the partner to the one tucked into the knot of his neckerchief.

 

However, when he went to answer the knock at the door, the speech fizzled away entirely as he caught sight of the blue petals – the exact shade as the ink decorating the inside of Thorin’s wrist.

 

His manners took over from his surprise and Bilbo let Thorin in, pleased to see that boots had already been wiped. He twiddled the flower stem absently, returning Thorin’s smile with one of his own. “You’re just on time.”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes. “It isn’t that difficult to find your home. I merely had to follow the path.”

 

“If anyone can get lost on a straight road it’s you, Thorin.” He laughed at the put upon expression he was treated to. Time to change the subject. “Where did you get this?” he asked, as if he’d only just noticed the aster.

 

“I sourced it from Master Gamgee, since I knew little more than its name and how it looked.” His cheeks were a little darker than usual. “He also informed me that it represents great love.”

 

Bilbo nodded. His throat was strangely dry and he had to swallow twice before he was able to reply. “That’s correct.”

 

“I can only assume that dream I had long ago was of you, because when I think of you I think of great love. I brought some for you to wear though…” His eyes lingered on Bilbo’s throat. “What flower is this?”

 

“It’s a catchfly. Or you could call it viscaria.”

 

“And its meaning?”

 

Bilbo smiled. “It means, ‘will you dance with me?’.”

 

Thorin chuckled. “Very fitting.”

 

“I thought so. But if you’re already wearing the aster then I’ll just leave this –”

 

“Would there be disastrous consequences if I were to wear both side-by-side?”

 

Blink. “No? Not that I can think of.”

 

“Then I will wear both,” Thorin said practically. “And so will you.”

 

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

Whispers flew aplenty at the wedding.

 

This was unsurprising, since Bilbo was a Hobbit of some repute in society while Thorin literally occupied the highest rung of Dwarven society. For Thorin to be in Mannarill was cause for some gossip, for a Baggins to keep the company of a Dwarf was cause for more. That they arrived together raised many an eyebrow. The matching flowers they wore – and the meanings of those flowers – made the Hobbits present very interested. The mithril-and-gold beads in their hair caught the eye of every Dwarf that passed.

 

Bilbo curled his hand around Thorin’s arm to get his attention, fingers resting in the hollow of the inside of his elbow. (A Dwarf observer, catching sight of this, would have fainted had he been more flighty.)

 

“Problem?” Thorin had one impressive eyebrow raised.

 

“Only that we’ve attracted some attention.”

 

Apparently incapable of subtlety, the Dwarf looked around without bothering to be discreet about it. “Is that so unexpected?”

 

He sighed. “There is a time and place for being at the centre of attention, but Daffodil’ and Millie’s wedding isn’t it.” Neither bride had arrived just yet, but Bilbo doubted they’d be much pleased if their guests were more involved in something that wasn’t their nuptials. “You’d think they’d never heard of Hobbits and Dwarves being friends, never mind whose wedding they’re attending.”

 

“One, we are more than friends,” Thorin said, almost matter of fact but for the blush on his face. “Two, and speaking for the Dwarves present, it is a little unusual that their King would be a fellow wedding attendee, whether or not with a mystery Hobbit.”

 

“I’d have thought a King could go wherever they want.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it’d go uncommented upon.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d be able to escape the same scrutiny in future. If things between he and Thorin continued on apace, they would too marry and he would be… Prince? Or Consort? That was a much higher title than owner of Bag End, carrying more expectations from more than the gossips of Hobbiton.

 

Yet he knew he’d learn to live with it. He would bear more than that to remain by Thorin’s side – travelling to unknown lands and fighting fantastical beasts, he would do that and further.

 

Thorin pulled him from his thoughts, his larger hand covering Bilbo’s. “And speaking of comments, my family have been dropping hints. You have at most until next Mersday before they decide to descend on your den.”

 

“Smial,” he corrected. “Hobbits aren’t foxes,” was the follow up protest but Bilbo’s heart wasn’t really in it. He was a little distracted; of all Thorin’s relatives, he’d only seen one up close. Even without her winning the swordfighting bout, Dís was an intimidating Dwarf. (And how had Bilbo believed Thorin’s terrible lie about ‘Princess’ being a moniker rather than her actual title?) “I don’t know that Bag End will survive so many Dwarves.”

 

“You have some days to reinforce the infrastructure.” Thin lips twitched.

 

“I think it’ll be best that I do the ‘descending’. I don’t think I’d dare kick any of your family out of my own home if things get too overwhelming.”

 

“In which case you need only say the word, and I shall do the kicking.” Here Thorin laughed out loud, having caught Bilbo’s expression. “Very well, then, when should I expect you in Erebor?”

 

“In two days?” That would give him some time to prepare. “Will I even be allowed in?”

 

“There are more advantages to being King than being able to go where I wish. The guards will not question your presence.”

 

Not within his or Thorin’s hearing, at least.

 

“If you come by in the evening then I will meet you at the main gates.” Thorin’s thumb swiped over his. “Should I be detained for any reason I will send a runner ahead.”

 

Bilbo nodded. He licked his lower lip, making a concentrated effort to keep his panic at bay. “What do I wear?”

 

This was met with a longer-than-expected silence. When Bilbo glanced up at him, Thorin appeared to be studying the paper lanterns hung all about the tree under which Millie and Daffodil would be married. He nudged him.

 

“What?” A frown. “Oh, were you being serious?”

 

“Of course I was! It’s an important question. What do I wear?”

 

“…clothes?”

 

Bilbo looked to the sky. “What _kind_ of clothes, you clot.”

 

“It won’t matter, so long as there are some. It’d be more important for you to wear the bead I gifted you. My kin will see it and know its significance.” Thorin’s eyes were bright, impish. “I’ll thank you not to display your wrists in their presence, though.”

 

“You think you’re so funny.”

 

“I know I am.” This time he nudged Bilbo. “Is that them?”

 

Cheers had started up, so it was no surprise to follow Thorin’s line of sight and see Daffodil and Millie arriving. The ceremony itself was short, though still lovely. Bilbo discreetly retrieved his handkerchief and dabbed the corners of his eyes. Thorin was observing everything with interest, likely comparing Hobbit traditions to that of Dwarves – just as Bilbo had done during Durin’s Week.

 

As drink flowed and food was passed ‘round, the newlyweds made their way around to greet their guests. Bilbo kept one eye on them and the other on Thorin, who was trying his – apparently – first ever mug of Hobbit ale. By the way he was frowning into his tankard but still sipping from it, he was undecided as to whether he was enjoying it or not. That was probably fair, since Bilbo found Dwarven ale pleasant enough but not his preference.

 

They’d have to work on expanding each other’s palates. Bilbo was inordinately happy that he had the chance to do so. He still found it hard to believe that Thorin hadn’t just stormed away from Bag End that night after swearing to never suffer Bilbo in his sight ever again. Instead they’d gone to sit in the parlour – for though Hobbit kitchens were comfortable, it was nicer to sit in cushioned chairs by the fire – and had talked most of the night away.

 

Thorin had returned to Erebor a little before dawn. Bilbo had returned to his room but found himself irrevocably awake. Now the ghost touches that had troubled him for so long were comforting – they were memories now rather than imaginings of what he didn’t have. He’d found the Dwarf of his dreams and would do everything in his power to keep him. Since he was Thorin’s One, he knew that Thorin would do the same.

 

Having gotten a little lost in his own head, Bilbo was returned to the present by a gentle nudge from Thorin. Ah. Daffodil and Millie were heading their way.

 

Whereas the decorations were peonies in pale pinks and sunny yellows and vibrant reds, Daffodil and Millie wore white. Or, mostly white flowers that seemed to hold soft rainbows within them. He was reminded of the moonstone Thorin had worn.

 

Daffodil reached them first and surprised Bilbo by throwing her arms around him. He supposed that she was flushed with joy, which was understandable given it was her wedding day, so after his initial shock he returned it. Millie was more reserved and offered him a smile. It fled from her lips when her gaze wandered to the Dwarf beside him.

 

“My King!” she exclaimed, pale, quickly offering a bow.

 

Thorin inclined his head in such a regal manner that Bilbo wondered how he’d not realised before that he was royalty. “Here and now I am no more than a guest at your wedding. My congratulations to you and your wife.”

 

“Th – thank you, my K – I mean, thank you.”

 

Initially watching this interaction with wide eyes, Daffodil looked at Bilbo with growing glee. “Should I expect an order from you soon, Mister Baggins?”

 

He could feel the tips of his ears burning. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

 

She giggled at him. “Whether you go with a Hobbit or Dwarf ceremony, I’m sure Millie and I can come up with something that’ll suit both with no problem. What do you think, dearheart?”

 

By now Millie had recovered from her earlier shock and treated Bilbo to a grin that was as sly as her wife’s. “We’ll keep your preferences in mind since you’ve been a customer of ours for so long. The only additional information we’d need is which gems you’d like.”

 

“Sapphires, I think,” Thorin cut in, smoothly following it with, “We’ve kept you both too long, and you’ve many other guests to speak with.”

 

“Yes,” Bilbo said, latching on to this escape, “Don’t let us keep you.”

 

Luckily they didn’t push the issue, though Bilbo foresaw much teasing the next time he visited them in Mannarill. Hopefully by then the idea of being wed to Thorin wouldn’t make him blush quite as warmly.

 

There was one thing, though…

 

“Thorin?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“For Dwarves, do gemstones carry meanings?”

 

“Yes, of course. There are many gemstones, with different shapes and colours and other features.” He smiled. “Just like you Hobbits and your flowers.”

 

And oh, wouldn’t Thorin look lovely with flowers in his hair? “What do sapphires mean, then?”

 

“According to my people, sapphires – blue sapphires in particular – are a promise of honesty and trust.” The curve of his mouth had grown more gentle. “I think it’s fair of me to associate such qualities to our relationship.”

 

Bilbo… couldn’t argue with that.

 

“They’re also a symbol of unwavering loyalty.” Thorin’s voice was low, speaking softly enough for only the both of them. “There is nothing better I can pledge to you than that.”

 

He shook his head. “You don’t need to pledge it to me – I know it’s there. I feel it too.”

 

This admission turned Thorin’s expression impossibly fond. “What flowers would you choose to express the same?”

 

“Daisies and blue violets. They’d look beautiful in your hair.”

 

“As sapphires would in yours. A simple diadem of mithril and sapphires.”

 

Likely he would look ridiculous, but Bilbo had no doubt that Thorin would still find him beautiful. He was truly a lucky Hobbit. “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. I still have yet to meet your family.”

 

Thorin tipped his head to the side, considering. “True enough. They might scare you away.”

 

He scoffed. “I think I can handle a few relatives.” Certain relatives in particular would have Thorin cowering in his boots, he was sure.

 

“My family encompasses more than relatives, just so you know, and they are –”

 

Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s larger hand, interrupting what sounded like a rant. “Remember what you were saying about loyalty? I would go to the ends of the earth for you, Thorin.” Inspiration sparked in his head as he remembered the story he’d told. “I’d face a Dragon if that was what you wanted.” Bilbo reconsidered. “Well, I could steal something from its hoard? That might be more achievable. Especially if it happened to be asleep at the time.”

 

Thorin laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Ah, but you love it.”

 

“I love you.”

 

Bilbo smiled, squeezing Thorin’s hand tightly, and turned back to Daffodil and Millie. The two of them stood with hands clasped, about to start the dancing. One day that would be him and Thorin, dressed in blue gems and blue flowers, standing before their friends and family as they celebrated the most important day in Bilbo’s life.

 

For now though, as Thorin pulled him close, he was satisfied with knowing he loved and was loved in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orange Blossom - eternal love, marriage and fruitfulness  
> Marigold - grief, jealousy  
> Aster – great love  
> Viscaria – will you dance with me?  
> Peony – Gay life, happy marriage (okay it’s available only late spring early summer but suspend disbelief for the sake of fiction).  
> Sapphire - promise of honesty, loyalty, purity and trust.  
> Daisy – loyal love  
> Blue violet – faithfulness, I’ll always be true
> 
> Flower meanings from [here](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/) and [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12SK10SXQWj4lhpkPG9tYbDK69x1JuuZ1ldl8Kh7Z9C8/edit#gid=0).  
> the peonies that Millie and Daffodil are wearing are [Top Brass peonies](https://www.google.com/search?q=peony&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjPiITQ5JjRAhXLpo8KHffJBA4Q_AUICCgB&biw=781&bih=565#tbm=isch&q=top+brass+peony).  
> Gemstone meaning from [here](http://www.wixonjewelers.com/education/gemstones/gemstone-guide/).
> 
>  
> 
> And... that's it.
> 
> I really wanted to post this before the new year because um, this was started in December 2014 which means that it's taken two years to complete. That's insane, and I'm a bit down on myself because it's taken this long.
> 
> But still, that time was probably needed for this fic to end up like it has, so maybe it's benefited from it.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for joining me on this journey. I couldn't have done this if ewebean hadn't come up with the idea and the art in the first place, and I definitely couldn't have finished it without the help of alkjira and others, and I would most assuredly have given up long ago if it wasn't for all the comments and encouragement from the rest of you. _Thank you_.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
>  ~~Chapters will be posted weekly to prevent a flood of words ~~and not at all because I'm not quite finished nope~~.~~ Chapters will be posted when they're finished, because dental school messes with writing. (Note how 'life' wasn't included there, because I have none.)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> authors live on comments you know. js.  
> 


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